


Infinitely Stranger than Fiction

by Nikola_Nial_Keheley



Category: Real Person Fiction, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Conspiracy Theories, Fanaticism, Friendship, Gen, Hiatus, Kidnapping, M Night Shamalon-a-ding-dong, MKUltra, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Psychological Torture, RPF, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikola_Nial_Keheley/pseuds/Nikola_Nial_Keheley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman find out what happens when a hiatus goes too long. Rated T for mild language and light gore. According to my beta:<br/>"You have a suspenseful mind bender which is one of the most meta and well characterized stories I have ever read..."<br/>I'm not sure how true that is, but I'm flattered by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Introduction

The era of the 1950's was marked with fear in the democratic world. A fear of communism, of weapons, of death, and as oft happens when fear enters the mind, plans of retaliation began to fester and build. It started off innocently enough; the thought that there should be a way to protect one's self against the ever looming eye of the encircling Sputnik, and that perhaps it would be best to handle this in a preemptive way. After all would it not be easier to know what the Russians and company were doing if they had an inside man? If there were a way to help the commies see the aspects democracy as they actually were? How many innocent lives would be spared if the enemy fell apart from the inside? These thoughts amongst others paved the way for an irrational sounding idea to take hold in the minds of the leaders of the free world; the idea of brainwashing and reshaping.

In 1953 the CIA began a project known widely as MKULTRA. The intention of this venture was to find the key to entering the human mind. The most widely known experiment done in the name of this research was a study where participants were given LSD in the hopes that they would become more pliable under the influence of the then almost unknown street drug. Instead many of the partakers were injured in the attempt; when the public found out they reacted negatively and by the 1970's this program and all other attempts to manipulate the mind were abandoned. At least that is what the world was led to believe.

 

Chapter 1

_"My dear fellow, life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent."_

_~Sherlock Holmes: A Case of Identity_

To say his head was splitting would be an understatement. Shifting his body had not lessened the pain like his throbbing brain had hoped, but did give him the tactile input that his face was resting on a hard cool surface. The tall man allowed himself to feel a slight respite in his pulsating temples as the concrete stole some heat from his forehead. Letting his face relax he suddenly noticed that there seemed to be something dry on its surface which cracked with movement. Paint? No. It did not smell like paint; the ting of copper filling his nostrils told him that… the thought was interrupted by the sound of something moving in the close vicinity. The man forced his eyes open and instantly regretted it. White light flooded through his pupils causing his head to reel even more, and a deep moan to escape his throat. He quickly closed the shades, but the pain continued. His brain instantly began to attempt to process the information, but the thoughts seemed to fly by too fast, as though he was viewing them through the window of a speeding car. Why? What had happen….

"Ben? Hey, Ben are you alright?"

Ben. Benedict yes, that was his name, and he knew that voice too.

"Martin?" His tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth. His ears picked up more movement, and soon the pressure of a hand was placed on his back, gently shaking his shoulder. Ben decided to risk opening his eyes again, and was relieved to find his vision was not assaulted by blinding white light as before. Blinking the haze from his eyes he was met with the sight of a gray concrete floor, a white washed brick wall, and the jean clad knee of Martin Freeman.

"Yeah. Yeah it's me. Do you think you can sit up?"

Sit up? Yes. That seemed possible. Placing his hands on the hard floor Benedict began to push himself up, only to have his elbows give out, and his chest to collide with the dusty floor once again. Arms snaked their way around from behind, pulling Ben into a kneeling position with his legs tucked underneath him.

"Thanks," the words came out as a slurred puff a breath, a mixture of the exertion and the fog still filling his head. Martin pulled him back until he rested against another wall, allowing his head to roll to the side. "What, what happened?" Benedict managed to wince.

"I don't know. One moment we were waiting to do an interview, then it kind of went dark and I woke up here. Ben!" The sudden fear in his friend's voice caused the taller man to sit up a little more and open the eyes he was not aware he had closed.

"Sorry, it's just my head. It… it hurts…"

"I imagine it must. Bloody hell Ben there is blood all over the right side of your face. You might have a concussion." The room suddenly filled with the screeching of an intercom system.

"Oh Martin, I can assure you that is not the case. We wouldn't want anything to happen to our Benny," the voice tumbling from the speaker above their heads crooned. "Of course you aren't a doctor, well not yet anyway, so we can forgive your lack of knowledge."

"Look if its money you want we can get it for you," Martin replied calmly, "but right now Benedict needs medical attention."

"Money?!" The voice scoffed, "we don't want your money. We want," the voice paused as though contemplating their next word carefully, "we want closure and continuation of course."

"Closure? Continuation? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Sherlock. What else is there to talk about?"

"Sherlock? The television series?! Do you seriously mean to tell me this," the shorter man waved his arms around to indicate the small cell (there was no other way to describe it) in which he and his friend were currently residing, "is because of a program?"

"I can assure you Martin it is so much more than a show; it is brilliance. We have been very patient. We have earned the moniker 'the Fandom Who Waited' across the internet, but the time for waiting is over."

"So what, do you want us to tell you what happens in season three?"

A laugh bounced around the small confided space. "Spoilers? You think this is about spoilers? We can find those with a simple Google search. No. We want to see season three, and you two are going to play it out for us."

"You want us to act out season three?" Martin looked down at the other man and realized he had at some point let his lids fall once more. "Crap, Benedict," he quickly kneeled down and placed his hands on the other man's face, "Ben hey, you need to stay awake. Come on." The only response he received was a slight groan. "We need to get him help!"

"On the contrary Martin, Benedict is reacting exactly as he should to our experiment."

"Experiment? What are you going on about?"

"All will become clear in time, good doctor. Oh, and you can remove the plasters now if you like. We know how itchy they can be."

"Plasters?" The blonde looked down at his arm and spied the pre-mentioned bandage; pulling it off to reveal a small hole. A puncture wound. "Oh God." Freeman was three breaths from panic when the sound of another groan brought his back to the current situation. He was still kneeling in front of Benedict, and felt a weight lift off his shoulders when the other man's eyes fluttered open. "Hey," he whispered with a small smile as the gray-green eyes attempted to focus on their surroundings, "I think we have been captured by some bloody fan girls, they sound insane, but I'm sure someone is looking for us by now…" Martin's sentence drifted off as he watched the other man's head drop back down. "No, you need to stay awake Ben, okay?"

Benedict's head rolled back up and he looked the other man in the face, confusion written on all his features. "J'hn?" The dyed brunette seemed to want to say more, but his eyes once again fell shut.

Martin proceeded to panic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Um, my name is Nikola and this is the first fan fiction I have ever uploaded. I originally uploaded it to FanFiction, but the site's rules do not allow for my story to stay there so I hope it finds a home here. 
> 
> I have been reading and writing stories for about ten years, but have always kept them to myself until recently when a friend finally convinced me to allow her to read them, and encouraged me to post. This tale is a little odd it is however, by far one of my favorite ideas, and I do not think I have ever seen a story similar to it (if there is I apologize, and would love to read it). Please give me some feedback if you feel the need, and thank you for joining me on this adventure :)
> 
> I do not own Sherlock, nor do I condone the fictionalized actions foretold within this story.

When Benedict opened his eyes again things seemed… altered. He was still in the same room only:

The wall he vaguely remembered as well… white was so much more. Benedict could see that the paint was thin; it had been applied in two layers to compensate for this, but the brick was still visible behind it, chips and nicks were all about: cheap then, the type businesses bought in large quantities. It was also grimy, layers of dirt and dust seemed to be into it imbedded permanently. There was mold seeping down from the corners pointing to the fact that it had not been cleaned for quite some time. Ben turned his head slightly and noticed a wall in a similar state in his right; to his left was a comparable wall which encompassed a door. Metal, stainless steel if he were to venture a guess based off of the shine and the fact that it had not started to rust even though the walls clearly stated that the room was lacking in care. The hinges seemed to be located on the outside, causing the door to open into the room, also stopping the door from being pried open from his current position. Ben could not see the entirety of the wall he was resting against (how did he get here? He was certain he was on the floor before...) but he was sure it would look the same as the adjacent one: no windows. His eyes had wandered to the floor (when he was not sure, he had just thought about the floor, hadn't he?) Where he noticed the small crimson puddle in the middle; Benedict quickly connected that to the copper smelling substance on his face: blood, his blood. The floor itself was covered in dust, about a centimeter think, only adding to the proof that this room had not been cleaned in a long while. The dust had done an excellent job mapping out the recent activities in the chamber however, so perhaps it should be noted positively.

Coming from the door were two sets of footprints one larger than the other, in between was the larger disturbance in the grime. They had dragged something. The path stopped at the red stain on the ground. So that was how he came to be in the room. The footpaths seemed to retreat back from where they came, and Benedict's eyes locked onto yet another set. Once again there seemed to be at least two people; they had different treads then the original pair, and their prints seemed to sink farther into the dust, carrying something then. These prints led to another indent in the filth, and then to seemed to depart, but the weight had been up on their toes, so they had been running. Coming from the other clearing (the one he had not apparently made) were yet another set of tracks, the person seemed to have kneeled down next to Ben, and helped him up against the wall. After that they looped and bobbed around the room in obvious frustration.

Ben remembered someone being there, someone he trusted. A friend, a good friend, but their face seemed obscured in his memory.

A shuffle in the corner closest to him brought Benedict back to reality. He blinked (had he blinked throughout that entire thought? Or thoughts? How long had he been thinking?), and shifted his head towards the corner. Martin? Yes of course that was Martin. Benedict closed his eyes and shook his head to try and clear the fog that seemed to only encompass his friend. When he opened them again it was still there, but much thinner than before.

Martin was sitting in the corner with his knees pulled up close to his chest, making him seem incredibly small. His right arm was wrapped tightly around his legs in a protective fashion while his left arm rests a top his knee caps. Martin's eyes seemed to be tunneling into the crook of his elbow with excessive force.

"Are you alright?" The words felt trapped in his throat, and Ben suddenly realizes how dry his mouth was. Martin's eyes snapped up promptly, but after finding Benedict's fell back to their original place on his arm. He had also begun a light fidgety rocking motion, which disconcerted Cumberbatch all the more. Martin was, afraid. Not only did it seem he was trying to vanish into the corner, but the rocking along with the dilating of his pupils Ben had witnessed in their short bout of eye contact screamed that he was terrified. Benedict pushed himself to a standing position against the wall. It was painful, but manageable. Somehow Martin succeeded in pulling his knees closer to him. Martin was not just afraid of their situation then (which Ben had quickly come to understand was probably not a pleasant one) but also of him.

Panic flooded Benedict's being at this realization. Martin was afraid of him? Why? He remembered seeing his friend, and then blacking out. Had something happened? "Martin, are you alright?" It came out more forcefully than he had intended, his dry throat making his voice harsh and rasping; Cumberbatch winced thinking it might have made things worse.

"What did you say?" Freeman's head had snapped up, and their eyes locked once more.

"I…I asked if you were alright. Are you?"

"No." Martin shook his head "What did you say before? Word for word." Martin's eyes were a tirade of emotions; his face was hard and cluttered with deep worried grooves. It seemed as though fear, anger, betrayal, and possibly hope were all fighting for the main stage.

Benedict's panic was feeding off of his friend's fear. He did not know what had happened, but it must have been bad. "I," Ben started his tongue feeling like sand in his mouth, "I said 'Martin, are you alright?'"

Upon these words reaching his ears Martin's face softened considerably, though his eyes still seemed to house both hope and doubt, "Ben? Are you… you?" He asked as he staggered to his feet.

If Benedict was concerned about his friend before he was fretful now. "Last time I checked. Martin what happened? Are you sure you… oomph!"

Ben found himself being tackled against the wall in a tight hug. "Oh thank God! I thought you were gone."

"Gone?" The taller man questioned as he carefully took hold of the blonde's shoulders to pull him back and study his face. "What do you mean gone?" Benedict's thoughts flew into action trying to find an answer; he stumbled slightly as his brain began to buzz.

"Whoa. Here let's get you back on the floor." Martin instructed "You might still be woozy from that crack on your head."

Benedict nodded slightly and allowed Martin's hands to guide him down to sit even though he was nearly sure he was alright. His brain was no longer raw and trying to vacate his skull… instead it felt… jittery? No. That was not an adequate description; it was as though he was being bombarded from every direction by information. He was suddenly noticing everything around him without trying. It was not hard, or strange, it just was.

"Ben. Are you still with me?"

"No, I mean yeah I'm here. Martin what is going on? Why are we here?"

"You don't remember?"

Benedict thought for a moment. "I remember waking up here, having a horrible headache. You helped me to sit up, and then you started to talk to someone. They weren't in the room though." Ben looked up at the wall supporting him to find a speaker; Martin followed his gaze to confirm his thesis. "Then everything turned foggy as though I was being pulled away. I must have passed out then."

"That's all?"

"Yes, well that's all that matters anyway," he smiled, "except for a strange dream."

Martin schooled his breath, but his pupils began expanding again, "What was the dream?"

Ben's smile grew because he knew Martin's fear was unnecessary. "I don't remember much of it, and what I do is really not that interesting," Martin did not seem placated by this so he continued. "It was… well you know how sometimes you dream you're one of your characters? Well in the dream I was Sherlock and John was trying to wake me up after I got knocked out or something; like I said complete rubbish."

Freeman's face lost all color; Benedict quickly reached out to steady him, as he looked close to fainting. "Ben," he gasped "Ben that wasn't a dream."

"What? Of course it was."

"No Ben, that happened here. It's a part of what they're doing; they're trying to turn us into our characters," somehow more blood seemed to drain from Martin's face "and it sounds like it's working."

"What?" Benedict could feel his extremities cooling as well, most of his blood draining to his body's center, "Who? Why? How?" The questions were fired off in quick succession.

"Nutter fan girls," Martin sighed "I don't know how many, apparently this division has been driven insane by the long hiatus. They want to see the reunion now, and want it to be as real as possible so they need Sherlock and John, not us. They seem to have injected us with something, some sort of drug to change us into what they want." Martin said this all as though he had been mulling it over in his head for hours (which he had). He had had a lot of time with the idea already, but suddenly realized his friend was not taking the news very well. Benedict's fingers were jumping manically on his knees as though dancing to an unheard wild rhythm and his breathing had quickened to a point where it sounded as though he might hyperventilate.

"Ben! Ben, it's alright. I'm sure people are looking for us; they'll find us soon."

"No they won't." Ben countered dazed, "we are in the basement of a building that no one has used for years."

"Ben," the blonde asked softly "how could you know?"

The taller man looked around the room. Was it not obvious? Why was it obvious? Had it always been obvious? He tried to take a deep breath, but it was difficult with his chest wanting to constrict, "It's easier for me to know than explain how I know," he answered honestly.

This earned him a raised eyebrow and a smirk from his shorter counterpart.

"Look at the state of the place Martin! The paint is old; the room is covered in dust, dust containing metal shavings I might add, so obviously a factory of some kind. There is mold growing in the corners, which is reaching at least a third of the way down the wall so the building is not up to code then.

Listen. Do you hear that? No? That's because there is nothing to hear! All the machinery has stopped, if it were just for a holiday then the machines would still kick on from time to time to keep them warm, but they have not moved since I've woke up. The musty smell combined with the pre-mentioned mold suggest that we are in an underground level, most likely the basement, and the sheer amount of dust coupled with the fact that the lights above our head are flickering slightly and of an older variety based on the hum suggests that the building has been out of use for at least ten years. All of that along with the fact that these fans have had TWO YEARS to plan this kidnapping, and are apparently intelligent enough to synthesize an agent that can change components of one's personality. Doesn't it occur to you that they have probably covered their tracks? What do you think the chances are that anyone will be looking for us in a place like this?"

Throughout his outburst Benedict's eyes had gone a steely gray, while his words took on a harsh iciness. The volume of his voice had risen steadily until he was yelling the last sentence. It was not until he stopped, gasping for breath that it struck him what he had done. Martin was sitting in front of him gob smacked, a visible tremor shaking his hands.

"Martin?" Ben suddenly came back to himself. "Oh Martin I'm sorry. So so sorry." Benedict pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face into them. That was not him, but yet it was. Everything fell so easily out of his mouth, so naturally, it seemed like he had been doing it all of his life, but he knew he had not. Ben's face became hot and his eyes burned with the promise of tears. It was happening already, he was starting to become something he had only ever pretended to be. He was starting to lose himself to it.

A hand came up and rested tenderly on his back, preforming small endless circles on Benedict's shoulder blades. "Shhh, it's okay. Ben we're going to get through this, it's fine." Ben had heard this voice before, it was the one Martin used when one of his children fell down and scrapped a knee, or hurt themselves in some other fashion; a mixture of compassion and strength. Benedict leaned into the source of this comfort who had positioned himself next to the curly haired man. "So you're a little more ADHD now. To be fair you've always been a bit hyperactive."

This received a choked chuckle from Benedict, he had never considered it before, but it did make sense that Sherlock Holmes would have a bad case of Attention Defecit Hyperactivity Disorder. A moment passed in comforting silence before Ben pulled his head up and turned to face Martin. "It could be worse," he pointed out while whipping the tear tracks from his face "they could be Hobbit fan girls." Martin bubbled over with giggles, and Ben soon joined him.

"Yes," Martin squeaked between fits of laughter "Let's be glad for that. I'm not sure how I would cope with you as a dragon."

"I kill where I wish and none dare resist. I laid low the warriors of old and their like is not in the world today."" Benedict bellowed, netting him an extra howl of glee in response.

The merriness slowly died down and Benedict found his gaze wondering back onto his friend. "Martin has it… I mean have you, are you changing too? You don't seem any different."

Martin took a deep breath, looked down at his hands and then back to the other man. He opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by the crackle of the overhead speaker.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh Benedict, you needn't worry love, we need both Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Be assured Martin is going through the same process as you. His change is just more gradual as John Watson has a… more" the disembodied voice giggled "ordinary personality than his counterpart."

Ben, who had always been a calm person, felt his blood boil. The thought that this would not be his normal reaction crossed his mind, but was drowned out by the flood of information he had gleamed from the voice, and an over whelming urge to protect the man sitting next to him. "You're female, early twenties, based on your tone and tenor. Although you try to cover it your dialect screams southern Sussex. You're vernacular and use of pet names," the latter two words were spit "suggests that you feel very comfortable in your plans. Let me assure you that is a grave mistake."

Benedict felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, pulling him back to himself. He knew his deductions were probably alarming to Martin, but he was sure his fear was not necessary. He had simply pointed out the obvious, and it felt right. It was instantaneous and natural, like breathing only thrilling and… and wait no. No this, this was not him, wasn't right. One of Ben's hands reach up to cover Martin's and he turned his neck to find the blonde's eyes. The ability to pick someone apart was intoxicating, and he wanted to do it disparately, but he couldn't, he knew he shouldn't.

Martin locked his eyes with Ben and held his gaze firm. Cumberbatch wondered if Martin could sense his panic, if he knew where his mind had just gone. "Stay with me Ben," the voice was calm and each word punctuated by another firm squeeze of Benedict's shoulder. So he knew. How did he know? Freeman had always been a good friend, but now it was like he could see into his mind. Some sort of deeper empathy than he had previously possessed. Was this the drug working through his friend? As a show of comradely, and perhaps to ease his own growing worry Ben placed a hand atop Martin's and squeezed back. He made a mental note to better catalog his friend for changes in the future.

The moment was interrupted by an excited titter permeating the room. "OH MY GOD! I was just deduced by Sherlock Holmes! Do you have any idea how much I've dreamed about this? Oh the others are going to freak!"

Benedict rolled his eyes; that was not the reaction he was hoping for. Martin gave him a lopsided smirk before turning his face up to address the speaker.

"Right. Well as happy as I am to hear about your excitement I assume there is a reason you decided to communicate with us."

"Oh Martin, aren't you becoming snarky?" Benedict's breath hitched. Martin had always been snarky, right? He could not be sure. There was still a fuzz around Martin in his mind. A fog which made the information available seem distorted and strange. Subconsciously his hand tightened around the one Martin still had resting above his rotator socket. "But you're right. We do have a reason for this little chat. While we are happy with the current results we need to speed up the process. Your next session is to happen shortly. Please proceed to the door and wait."

"You seriously expect us to let you mess with our brains? Just waltz over to the door and say 'oh sure poke around in our noggins, we don't mind'? Just like that, really?" The indignation was clear in Freeman's voice.

"It's more desirable than the alternative."

"Oh, and pray tell what that is?" Martin could feel the deep rumble of the sarcastic inquiry next to him.

"Either you cooperate, or we will make you cooperate. The former is easier and much more comfortable than the latter, but it's your choice."

The two men found each other's eyes again, and their decision was clear.

"The latter please, If you will." Benedict replied.

The voice sighed, "As you wish."

The chamber filled with the echo of a rusty lock disengaging followed by the squeak of long neglected hinges moving with slight protest. Four large men clad in ski masks entered the room scattering dust in their wake. Although the actors did their best, it was apparent their fighting experience was mostly for the stage. They were soon apprehended and taken away to separate rooms.

Benedict pulled against the fabric bindings around his wrists. The new room was smaller, approximately two thirds the size of the one he and Martin had been held in. The door was different, something that would be more at home in a conference room than an old industrial building and the paint seemed to be of a higher quality. A rather cheaply made office chair sat across from him, accompanied by a small metallic surgical utensil holder whose contents were currently hidden by a blue snatch of fabric. Aside from that, the walls were just as bland as his last prison. Well, Ben was sure they would have been bland before his mind had gone into continuous overdrive. He was busy estimating the origin of the white washed bricks (most likely Manchester…) when the creak of the opening door stole away his attention.

"And how are we doing?" A brunet woman clad in a pinstriped suit and pencil skirt questioned as she crossed the short distance; her right hand held what looked to be a new faux leather brief case. Heels clicked until she reached the other chair, sitting down and crossing her legs. She took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt and adjust her horn-rimmed glasses before reaching into the briefcase and pulling out a notebook a pen. Benedict stayed quiet throughout the entire act.

"Not feeling very talkative Mr. Cumberbatch? Pity, I was hoping to get some insight as to how you are taking to the procedure."

"Procedure?" Came a low growl.

"Ah, he speaks," a smile crept across the tanned face, "good. Now Mr. Cumberbatch how would you describe your current psychological state?"

"My psychological state?" Ben seethed, "My friend and I have been kidnaped and held hostage in a currently disused factory by a bunch of our so called 'fans.' We have been drugged and mentally manipulated and you want to know about my psychological state?!" Ben bared his teeth at the small woman in front of him, "Piss off!"

Benedict's final words echoed through the small room followed by near silence which was only interrupted by the scratching of the woman's pen on her paper. "I see," the woman replied without lifting her eyes from the page, "and have you always been known to have these mood swings?" The tall man suddenly lost his breath. No, he had never jumped so quickly from one emotion to the next, but then he had never been in a situation like this before. It could very well be him, but at the same time….

"It that one of the things you've done to me?" He questioned, suddenly shaking, "Is that what you were hoping to see?"

The woman looked up and smiled again, the florescent light bouncing off her lenses and masking her eyes from his sight. "Well, I'm not going to say I'm disappointed in your current progress. You have made great strides towards our final goal."

"Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"You're going to be Sherlock Holmes," she smirked, "you tell me."

"You're American, Western coast going by your dialect. You live in the suburbs but enjoy being at the beach going by the slight salt damage of your hair." Benedict squeezed his eyes closed trying to get himself to shut up. The ability to deduce someone was intoxicatingly empowering, but in the short amount of time he had gained the ability it had also been the easiest way for him to lose himself. As hard as he tried to turn off his brain however, it seemed to rally against him. His mouth too had joined the mind in its rebellion as it continued to spit out the thoughts faster than the actor had thought possible. "You've recently graduated from university, Pomona college going by that garish ring, and judging from the calluses on your fingers and heal of your palm you spent the majority of your time typing, but there is also the callus on the outside of your right thumb that can only come from flipping the pages of a book over long periods of time. You attempted to look professional, but your clothing clearly comes from a second hand shop. Yet here you are in the UK. The American dollar has been weak in recent times, so why would a fresh graduate without any income decide to come to a country where her money would be worth half of what it would in her homeland?"

"Do you know the answer to that?"

"Oh, I think I do Cassandra," his lips quirked upwards when he heard her slight inhale. Ben clamped his eye lids together until he saw spots of dancing colors, but his vocal chords soldiered on, "Yes once again your ring gave you away. The side has the name Cassie engraved into it, short for Cassandra, obvious. Now onto why you're here; you're in your early to mid-twenties, and highly educated which fits into our highest viewing audience in the United States of America. That mixed with the fact that you are so calmly questioning me about this means that you are here on your own accord. The logical conclusion is that you are a knowing accomplice in this endeavor."

Finally finished with the fast paced monologue Benedict's eyes shot open and his fingers tightened around the arm rests to which he was tied. He lunged his chest forward trying to fill his diaphragm with as much air as possible.

"Oh, that was phenomenal," the woman, Cassie cooed. "This is better than I expected; I wish I could get a scan of your brain while you do that." Cassie went back to scribbling furiously in her notes, as Benedict continued to breathe and try to become himself again.

"You're, you're a doctor. You must know this is unethical, you took an oath to do no harm," he wheezed, "This, this is harming both myself and Martin."

A chuckled filled the air in the small room. "Oh Benny. I am far from a medical doctor."

"What?"

"You were spot on up until this point too," the not doctor frowned as she scribbled something onto her paper, "there is always something. Anyway, I'm a psychologist; a literary psychologist with an emphasis on Victorian literature to be exact. I've never taken an oath; my conscious is clear."

Benedict did not know how to react to this, but his brain, the portion which was moving at warp speed took it in a stride. "Why would you ever major in something like that? What sort of a job did you expect to get with a degree in the psychoanalysis of Victorian literature?! Honestly it is no small wonder that so many graduates find themselves unemployed; very short forethought on your part, Cassandra." The actor bit his check until he tasted copper; he had been many things in his life but rude was not one of them, and that was most definitely impolite. "I'm sorry," he whispered, letting his eyes fall to his lap.

"There is no need to apologize Mr. Cumberbatch. Your results are exactly as we expected, and hoped for. Really I should be thanking you."

Ben let the young woman's words sink in. The room became quiet once more. "Why are you doing this?" His eyes came up to meet Cassandra's.

"My current profession was initially inspired by the original Sherlock Holmes stories." The Victorian expert began, "Unfortunately Doyle had quite an eversion to writing Holmes, so there is a distinct lack in character development throughout his books." Sighing she continued " This resulted in stories that set the bar on the detective genre, but did not delve much into the personal lives of the characters. The main study of my scholastic career was of the phycology of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and the possible environmental factors which could have led to them being the men they were in the stories. Then," She went on "Sherlock came out. An adaptation of the beloved tales set in modern day that was actually _good_. My final thesis was based off of the show. It was actually published, maybe you've seen it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"On that's a shame; I think you'd have rather liked it."

"But that still does not explain why you're here, unless… oh of course."

"Ah," a predatory smile sped across the tan face, "So you've figured it out. Good that is very good." The words were punctuated with more scrapping of a pen on paper.

"You are the forefront of knowledge on Doyle's work as well as our resent series, thus making you the obvious person to impart the knowledge of the characters to Martin and myself. You are the reason my brain is going haywire at this current moment, you and the drug Martin mentioned."

The light still glinted off of the lenses in the horned rimmed glasses, but Ben was sure if he could see the eyes behind they would be filled with pride.

"Oh yes, you are doing well indeed." The psychologist's voice came out somewhat husky. Was she turned on by this? An evaluation was required: The typical physiological reactions to lust were dilation in pupils and accelerated heart rate neither of which Ben was capable of measuring from his current position. Perhaps if he could trick her into….

"STOP IT!" The actor yelled, pinching his face together until it hurt. He just wanted it to end, the constant buzzing through his brain, the myriad of ideas that had not allowed him a moment's peace since he had woken up in this building.

"It is quite a burden isn't it?" The female clucked circling the actor in his chair. She placed a hand of his shoulder, and he quickly flinched away as though it were made of fire. "As a child I often wondered what it would be like to think as Sherlock Holmes thought, to see what he saw. It would be a great blessing, make you a god among mere mortals, but it would also be a curse. There is a reason why Holmes took cocaine and morphine. I suspect he had a strong case of what we know today as ADHD. You see most people have it wrong; they think that ADHD is the inability to pay attention to anything, when really it's the ability to pay attention to everything. All the information, all the stimulation that most people can ignore is taken in. After a while I suspect that would drive even the most intelligent person mad. Holmes however, had the misfortune of being born long before we even imagined the existence of attention deficit hyper activity disorder, so he self-medicated with the help of a needle."

Ben was about to point out that he and Martin had already come to this conclusion, but instead snapped his eyes open upon feeling the slight sting in the crook of his arm. A syringe, most likely taken from the previously covered table stuck out of his pale skin, the plunger already fully engaged. "A feeling you will soon know very personally, Benedict." The woman flashed him a Cheshire grin as she removed the needle and covered the small hole with a plaster.

"There is a flaw in your plan," Ben stated attempting to rip his gaze from the bandage much too dark for his white canvas, "I am an actor, and although I may play him I am by no means intelligent enough to be Sherlock Holmes."

A tut could be heard from across the room. The actor suddenly noticed the woman had taken a seat once more, but had pulled it closer so they sat nearly knee to knee. "You really are as modest as all of those interviewers say you are. I can assure you that you are much smarter than you give yourself credit for Benny, and if there is any discrepancy between your intelligence to that needed to be Sherlock Holmes that drug should take care of it."

"There exists no drug which can make someone more intelligent," Ben sighed. He was suddenly becoming relaxed despite his current situation. His arms abruptly felt heavy, and in spite of the fact he was tied to a rather uncomfortable chair he felt his back relax into it.

"Oh, but this drug can do that and so much more," the woman explained while running a loving eye over the syringe she had dropped onto the floor once its job had been completed. Ben's head bobbed until his eyes found the object the woman had referred to. His neck seemed to be struggling to keep the eight pounds atop it. "This drug," she continued "is a cocktail of a few hypnotics as well as a chemical, similar to that of Scopolamine, a relative really. Of course Scopolamine is used to treat motion sickness in small doses; this is much more interesting concoction. That substance" she indicated the needle once more with her eyes, "has been shown to actually change the synaptic mapping of the brain. New thoughts and ideas can be implemented. The brain is a powerful thing Mr. Cumberbatch, sometimes all it needs is a little…suggestion."

The actor's head lulled down until it was resting on his chest, "What you're describing is science fiction. There isn't a drug that can do that," came his mumbled baritone. His brain was screaming at him that the hypnotics were beginning to take effect as they coursed through his veins, aided by the heart which had already begun to slow to the steady drone. The mind which had up until this point seemed scattered began to put up walls in its desire for self-preservation. A chuckle left the slowly relaxing man, "no such substance exists."

"Well technically your right. There isn't any information available about it in any data basis, medical or no. As far as the layperson is concerned there is nothing which can have that kind of long lasting effect on them. Technically it does not exist, just like technically you are Martin are off in some secret place reading lines, but we both know how true that is."

"Then how?" Ben asked the question though he was slowly becoming more interested in his legs. They had felt very heavy moments ago, but now it was like there was nothing there at all. He vaguely wondered if he could move them, or they had they simply fallen off?

"Have you ever heard of a project called MKULTRA?"

All the question received in reply was a deep mumble indicating to the negative.

"Well, I don't imagine you would have, it was CIA after all. Well sort of, at the time of the project the United Kingdom and the United States were quite concerned with the spread of communism." Cassandra sat back in her chair, "They were convinced that if they had some way to reprogram the communists and make them see the errors of their ways then they could continue to protect the free world, while liberating all those in the throes of Marxism. That drug was the product of years of work and preparation on both sides, there was great celebration when it was found to have had the desired effects on a convicted soviet spy. The next step would have been to make it distributable by air or drinking water. Then all that would've needed to take place would be distribution of the drug followed by an area wide announcement through radio and television. These actions would continue for a month or so to be sure everyone has received the message at least once, and the world would be free of communism, leaving capitalism to be seen for the jewel it is. The world would be safe from those who wished to over through our way of life."

"But…" Ben started.

"Ah, yes that never happened did it? No, it seems some of the test subjects in the United States began to talk. The project was able to implant the idea that they had been given LSD just in time, but with the public uproar that followed the program was shut down for good, leaving us with a drug which has to be injected into the patient. Not the best way to fight an ideal like communism, but perfect for making one person into another."

Despite what he was hearing Benedict had begun to feel an overriding sense of contentment throughout his body. His fingers tingled with happiness, while the muscles in his shoulders relaxed forward. A large part of his subconscious was still trying to support the walls surrounding it, but even there tendrils of the comfortable ecstasy were beginning to seep it. There was a thought though, nagging at the man as he continued to seep foreword, only supported by the binds on his arms. "What you're doing… to us… is it permanent?" The actor asked the question so quietly he was unsure if Cassie had heard him.

When the woman facing him answers the smile could be heard in her voice "We are changing the neural connections in your brain; the pathways which have been laid down throughout your life. Unless they get set back it will be, and I don't think anyone else knows the process well enough for that. Plus they would have to get the drug, and we are certainly not letting anything change Sherlock or John once we have them if we can help it."

"Please," even with the drug putting him into a euphoric state a tear found its way out of Ben's eye. It fell and soaked into his jeans leaving a slightly darker spot in its wake, "let Martin go. He has a wife, and children. You can have me, but let him go."

"That it very noble of you Mr. Cumberbatch, but Homes would be lost without Watson, without his Boswell. We want to see the reunion, and that simply cannot be done without Martin. Don't worry though; by the time we're done he won't even remember their names." Cassandra sighed and continued; "Now you seemed to suffer some negative effects from the last session. I think I tried to implement too much, and this caused your brain to only assimilate a marginal amount while leaving you with a bit of a migraine. I'm going to implement some time delays, so your brain will have periods to remodel one section before moving onto the next."

Part of Ben wanted to scream, to fight his way out of the room and find Martin. That part however, was slowly being chained down. Ropes of peace and comfort thrown over its back while it was muffled with contentment.

"This will work best if you try not to fight," the psychologist continued in a low calm voice, "fighting will lead to a dissonance, as there would be too many ways of being vying for a pathway. It will be very painful for you and cause a slowing of the process. We have waited long enough for season three do not pain us anymore than necessary. Is that clear?" The woman waited, but no reply came. "Good now Sherlock let's begin with your childhood."

Ben felt the remainder of his will divest as the walls finally crumbled down. He listened to the soothing voice describing events he would soon perceive as his own, as the drug produced a synthesized feeling of safety, trust, and a strong inclination of obey. As the last bit of consciousness left, and the tall man's eyes closed in restful concentration another tear fell, giving the darken spot a brother.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts
> 
> ~ The character of Cassandra is named after my friend and beta reader. They share no qualities other than the name, some physical characteristics, and the fact that I have made both of them addicted to Sherlock.
> 
> ~ Literary psychology actually exists! I thought I made it up, but a quick Google search proved me wrong.
> 
> ~ MKULTRA was a real CIA project, although I may have tweaked some [read: a lot] of the declassified details (I used to be quite the conspiracy theorist in my youth).
> 
> ~ I do feel that Sherlock Holmes has ADHD, specifically ADHD hyperactive-impulsive type. Does this sound familiar? Fidgeting, forgetfulness of information deemed 'unimportant', running from place to place, blurting out comments at inappropriate times, being impatient while waiting their turn/waiting for others, touching and getting into EVERYTHING, talking nonstop, seeming to lack a worry for physical well being, constantly climbing and/or jumping on or off of inappropriate places {Ow, my fall feels}... there is so much more.
> 
> Now I know many people feel that the BBC's Sherlock may have some kind of autism, even John mentions that he may have Aspergers during HotB, but he really does not fit many of the aspects of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). Sherlock knows how to socialize with other people (shown by his acting ability) which is a huge part of ASD. Woah, sorry I got off on a tangent... sometimes I forget these are fictional characters.
> 
> The above is just my opinion. It is based on my scholarly knowledge in the field of special education, but it is an opinion.
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading; let me know what you think if you feel the urge.
> 
> Nikola


	4. Chapter 4

Screams. Panicked cries reverberating off stark concrete walls. A familiar voice begging for help, so close, yet somehow distant. He had to find him, aid the voice calling out in the darkness, begging for help.

Focus. He had to focus. Move toward the source of the sounds; let it know it was alright. With more exertion then seemed plausible, Benedict pried his eye lids open. Blinking to clear the grogginess away he was met with the sight of a familiar dust covered floor; this was not a reunion he was excited to partake in. Although the lack of his brain attempting to vacate his skull did come across as a significant improvement to his last drugging. These musings may have continued along this line of thought if they were not interrupted by another blood curtailing sob. Lifting his head off the cold concrete Ben began to scan the dank room he found himself begrudgingly becoming acquainted with. More trails were visible in the metallic dust, one ended at a box which seemed to have water bottles and presumably food, along with a rather large bucket. Lovely a continental buffet and a toilet, their reservations must have been upgraded. Three others lead to a body in the corner currently writhing in pain. The man (for he was perceptibly male) was dressed in a pair of jeans, and what looked to be a woolen jumper. His body thrashed frantically as though fighting an invisible foe.

Benedict felt an internal pull toward the figure in such visible distress. He knew him, the actor was sure of it. Trying to stand, Ben found his legs weak beneath him. He muscles felt so relaxed, leading to a gelatinous wobble which quickly impeded his plans. In an odd way it was restful; to be honest Benedict was not sure when he last felt so tranquil. Perhaps he should curl back up on the floor…enjoy it. These plans were dashed when another pained sound came from the room's other inhabitant. No he had to reach him. Had to find out what was wrong. Lowering himself back to the ground fully Ben began to pull himself towards the other man with his arms while pushing with his feet. The process was slow, but the taller man soon found himself in battering distance of the fitful sleeper. Now that Cumberbatch was closer he could see the man was indeed asleep and not seizing, or experiencing some other medical condition, and after copious amounts of blinking and head shaking he suddenly realized who was before him.

"Martin? Martin!"

The deep baritone echoed throughout the room, but did nothing to wake the other man. Using all the strength he could muster Benedict pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall near his friend's head. From this position the taller man could see the blonde's hand, taking a pummeling against the brick wall, and the distressed face stained with tears. Not knowing what else to do, and with the sudden adrenaline from his discovery aiding him, Benedict pulled Martin upright and against him.

"Shhh," Ben soothed, "Martin you're having a dream," he locked his arms around the other man's chest, effectively pulling him away from the wall, and taking the brunt of the force from his flaying arms. "You need to wake up Martin," the slumbering man's hand took that moment to smack the taller man in the nose, "for God's sake," silver eyes boiled over what their owner was sure was a broken nose, "WAKE UP!"

Ben mentally kicked himself for being so discourteous, it was not Martin's fault that his nose was throbbing, but suddenly the struggling body had stilled.

"Martin? You awake?"

Twisting himself around the blonde turned to face his friend. Benedict took in the dark blue eyes staring up at him; usually vibrant, Martin's eyes seemed to be dulled in both awareness and hue. The orbs took in the man currently keeping him upright; gazing at Ben's face with an air of misperception.

"Martin?" The question was more of a breath than a vocal sound.

The shorter man blinked once, than twice more, followed by a sluggish agitation of his head from side to side with eyes closed. When they opened again the color was still dulled, but a slight amount of resolve seemed to have seeped back in.

"B…Ben?"

Cumberbatch let out a breath and felt a small smile spread upon his lips, "Yes Martin, I'm here it's me." Benedict constricted his arms a tad in the hopes it would prove he was corporeal; he was rewarded by a sigh and Martin's head collapsing onto his chest.

"I…I couldn't remember at first. I mean it was like I thought you were someone else. There is a blur, like a fog around your face…" the blonde's words drifted off as though in thought.

"I know," the other man exhaled, "I see the same thing when I look at you."

The head lifted off of Ben's chest and Martin took in the face of his friend again, "You're nose. Ben, you're bleeding."

"Oh, am I?" came the nonchalant response. Lifting a hand to the offending facial feature, Benedict found a black leather index finger covered in blood. Wait gloves? The actor looked down at the rest of his visage to find it clothed in the wardrobe of Sherlock Holmes. Leather dress shoes poked out beneath suit pants. Moving up to his torso a white shirt was visible under a tailored suit coat, a blue scarf wrapped with prefect casualness adorned his neck, the ensemble was finished off with a dark Balstaff coat complete with a red button hole. Benedict knew he should feel uncomfortable with the idea of being stripped down by desperate fan girls whilst unconscious, but instead only felt relief in finding a decent item to stint the flow of blood from his nasal passages. He unwrapped the scarf while making a mental note to explore this impassivity about his physical decency later. "So I am," he bunched the blue material under the flowing orphus.

"It was me, wasn't it?" The hand closest to the wall was lifted towards Martin's face. Cumberbatch watched as the shorter man rotated his wrist, mentally inventorying his injuries. "I'm sorry. I was back in Afghanistan; I could feel the heat, smell the explosions. I felt the bullet Ben, I felt it pierce my shoulder, heard my heart slow as it pushed the blood out of the wound."

"What do you mean back?"

"You know, back in the war."

"Martin," the pale man paled further, "you've never been in war."

A humorless chuckle dribbled from the other man, "Oh yes I bloody have, God help me. I was stationed with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers…"

"Where you acted as surgeon until you were wounded through the shoulder by a second hand gun whilst attempting to patch up a comrade, you would have perished in the sand were it not for William "Bill" Murry who stemmed the bleeding until further help could arrive."

"Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch!"

The man in question rolled his eyes, "Full names, really Martin?"

"Yes, and if I could move you would get much more than that. Telling me I've never been in battle when you can recite my military history," the rebuttal was coupled with a light elbowing to the other man's side.

"Yes, I know that account, but only because I research my roles."

"What are you going on about?" exasperation and a slight shiver were clear in the shorter man's voice.

"What 'I'm going on about 'Martin John Christopher Freeman," the deep voice rose two octaves, "is that the military career we are discussing is that of the fictional Doctor John Watson."

The room fell into uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the shorter man's now perceptible shivering.

"What? No. What?"

"Yes Martin. It isn't real, whatever you saw, whatever you felt it never happened to you."

"The drug," came a quiet groan, "Oh God, it…I… it felt so real."

"But it wasn't," Ben pulled the sullied scarf from his face to see if the bleeding had slowed, it seemed to have stopped, "that is their plan though isn't it? To make us into Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? What better way than to plant their memories in our heads, allow them to grow until they over run who we are? It's rather immaculate as far as plans go."

"And personalities," Martin shivered, "they can change those, and our dispositions too?"

Benedict shrugged, dropping the now stained scarf on the grimy floor, "I suppose it's possible. It should be a simple act of embedding them, just like memories. It would explain your sudden temper."

The shorter man wrapped his arms around himself whilst his teeth clattered, "It would explain the change in you too."

"Change? What change?" Ben had noticed a shift in his personality, the outbursts, the snide comments, but he had been trying to control it. Not let it seep through, especially with his friend. Now he looked down at the other man and wondered how well he had truly hidden it.

"You, you're colder Ben."

The taller man snorted at this, "I'm colder? You're the one who hasn't stopped shaking in the last five minutes."

"No, I mean you're detached. You're usually sympathetic, but you're just… not here. Not you."

"Oh." Benedict ran the conversation back through his head, word for word. Since when could he do that? Oh, episodic memory of course. Did it work retroactively or was this ability only linked to new experiences…

"Ben?" the actor was pulled back to himself, to he and his friend sitting on the floor of a sub-terrain factory room turned dungeon slowly losing their minds.

"You're right. I thought I could control it, but you're right I'm losing and didn't even realize it."

" 'S okay," Martin's words jumped with the rhythm of his body's attempt to warm itself, "I think, I mean, if we keep an eye on each other we should be alright. We just need to point out the differences we notice to each other so we're aware of them. Fight this as a team."

Fight it. The taller man ran this thought through his mind. Rebelling would be pointless, painful and counterproductive. No fighting would not be ideal.

Wait.

No.

This conclusion…

did not match up with current desires.

Peculiar, analysis required.

Was that his thought? It certainly sounded like his thought, but it did not blend with his current wants in this situation. What did he want? Freedom. Yes, based on location, recollection, and recent observations this seemed correct. Conclusion: Data invalid, most likely implanted by a malicious force i.e. Casandra: Victorian Literature Psychologist. Verdict: Fighting may lead to ability to resist the reprograming. Decision: Fighting is superlative.

With this choice made Benedict's brain combusted. Figuratively speaking, it was as though a spark had reignited the wildfire which had died down in his cranial cavity, and now it had returned with vengeance.

"Benedict?! Hey Ben!" A weight could be felt on both of his bicep muscles, finally allowing the tall being's eyes to reemerge to the world of the white cell. The would be doctor had placed his body in front of the other man, frantically trying to see what was wrong whist steadying himself against Ben's lilt frame.

"Alright," Cumberbatch breathed, "I'm alright." Silver eyes came up to meet the worried face of his colleague, "You're right, we have to keep fighting. No matter what we resist and we do it together."

Freedman gave him a tired smile and small nod to show his agreement, and Ben finally took in the state of the other man. His face was pale and drawn despite this though his body seemed to shake with a constant tremor. He truly looked like death warmed over twice.

"Martin," Ben gasped, "you look terrible." Involuntarily a long pale right hand came up to rest on the shivering one gripping his left upper arm, it was cold as the pelage.

"You know, that's the last thing I want to hear right now," the smaller man smirked. He sat back on his feet, for he had come to kneel before the other man when his face had pulled into a terrible grimace, but now it seemed after the small amount of adrenaline had subsided upon finding the other well his body was opting to give out. He would have continued his backward descent to the concrete if it were not for the quick reflexes of Benedict, who swiftly pulled the other man to his chest.

"And you're absolutely freezing!" Benedict wrapped one arm around the smaller man while pulling the other from the sleeve of his black coat.

"Well of course I am it's monkeys in here! Ben? What are you doing?"

"Trying to warm you up. We're in an completely underground room, as such the temperature is rather stable, " one arm free of its wool home, the appendages switched roles as the long dark coat was removed, and draped over Martin. "I don't understand. Why are you so cold?"

"It must be a side effect of the drug," supplied the now muffled voice encircled in long, thin arms.

"Preposterous! I have been given the same compound, and though I have experienced many side effects none of them pertain to body temperature regulation."

"Well, they gave me a double dose," the mumble explained from its dark makeshift tent.

"They what?!" Benedict had been rubbing his arms around the lump in an attempt to create friction and thus heat, but stopped upon hearing this.

"Yeah," they said I was not reacting to it as they hoped, so they upped the amount. They felt I was holding on too strongly to my memories," Martin shivered, "memories of my family."

"Cassandra," the deep rumble echoed around the room, hate and distain palatable in each syllable.

"The ponce with the horn rimmed glasses? Yeah she was there, and so was an actual doctor. Apparently they want John Watson to know his onions."

"Where did they find a doctor willing to help with this?"

"Oh apparently she is a fan."

"Martin is it odd that I get perverse pleasure from the fact that our fans are so intelligent, if not completely mental?"

This elected a weary chuckle from the covered man, and Ben was pleased to notice his shivering had reduced dramatically.

"You're tired," Benedict drawled, "go ahead and get some sleep."

The bundle in Ben's arms stirred for about a minute until Martin's head became visible through what was usually, and currently the neck hole with a huff. "Well, are you going to let me go so, you know… I can? Sleep that is."

"No," the taller man's answer came even though his eyes were scrutinizing the wall across from them, based on the ratio of pebbles to cement the bricks most definitely originated from somewhere in Manchester… northern area most likely.

"No?" Martin tilted his head to the side in the perfect imitation of a golden retriever, "What do you mean no?"

"I mean I'm not going to let go of you, obviously," the quip fell easily from the man's lips before he pulled his eyes from the now solved brick conundrum to let them rest on his friend. "Martin," his voice had lost its more recent analytical edge, falling back into Ben's usual cadence, "you're cold, and the best way to warm you up is to share body heat, and," the voice faltered for a minute while it's speaker cleared his throat, "this, I think it helps me. It helps me to feel more human, more like myself."

"Oh, well if it helps I guess you can act as my space heater," the shorter man tucked his head back into the wool blanket of a coat until only his hair was visible, "but you're you Ben. You have been since you decided to fight. We're going to be alright, we'll get through this."

Benedict let the words of his friend wash over him, and even with his mind aching he felt a hope begin to spread through his chest as the breathing of Martin Freeman fell into the steady rhythm of sleep in his arms. They would be alright; they would get out of this. No sooner had these thoughts formed did Ben notice an itch begin to tingle at the back of his mind. He tried to ignore it, but in the frankly unstimulating surroundings the actor soon found himself poking at the feeling. Suddenly a dam broke and memories surged, engulfing Benedict in their wake.


	5. Chapter 5

Childhood. A large house, surrounded by trees and a manicured landscape. Beautiful to look at but off limits for play. He did not mind though, as he spent more time in the library escaping his world for that of a pirate.

"It's time ye walk the plank, Mycoff!"

"Arg! You'll have to make me ye scurvy dog!"

Or experimenting in the kitchen, much to Cook's displeasure.

"Young man! What did you do to the sink?"

"I performed a chemical reaction, but it seems to have interacted poorly to the stainless steel, hmm."

"Sherlock it is purple!"

"It was for science."

Or in the wood behind the house, full of animals and various types of foliage.

"Mummy, look what I found!"

"Oh Sherlock, what a wonderful frog. Where did you get him?"

"By the creek. Did you know they start life in the water, and then grow lungs? That makes them a'phibians."

"My brilliant little man. Let me get some nibbles and you can tell me more."

Then he started school. It did not go as well as he hoped.

"Mr. Holmes, stop working ahead in the book."

"But I'm bored!"

"Freak!"

"Retard!"

"Loser!"

University was not much better.

"Weirdo."

"Nutter."

"Psycho."

"Freak."

He left after his second year. He did not need to be around those plebeians, not when he finally found a way to quiet the roar in his mind. All it took was a needle and a seven percent solution, and the rocket tearing itself apart finally quieted and slowed. He could float in the soundless euphoria; let it sweep him away to a happier time, a better time.

He overdosed twice.

"Really Sherlock, this is childish. You're actions have consequences. Think about what you're doing to Mummy, to Father, to me. We worry about you constantly."

"Piss off Mycroft!"

The third time he shot up that abundantly he stumbled into the yellow tape of a crime scene. Suffering from hyperthermia and half delirious he still solved the homicide in three minutes flat before the world faded to black, and he fell to the ground in a boneless heap. When he awoke in the cheap sheets of a hospital bed (a vast improvement to the abandon building in which he had been squatting) there was a man with gray hair reclining in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair; he was vaguely familiar, and Sherlock quickly deduced he was the DI from the night before. He had an ultimatum for the younger man: get clean and solve crimes or go to jail for the fourth possession charge. Thinking the latter sounded insanely boring, he chose the former.

Detox was spiteful, turning his body and mind against him. Cold then hot, shaking whilst vomiting, his brain clawing itself apart, it seemed it would never end. But then it did. DI Lestrade was true to his word, and proved to be the least insufferable person at New Scotland Yard. The young man invented a job for himself: consulting detective and he was nearly content. Yet the whispers continued.

"Freak."

"Psychopath."

It did not matter, he told himself. He did not need anyone, just the work, only the work. A few years went like this until the fateful day at Bart's when he met an invalid army soldier with a psychosomatic limp.

"Amazing!"

"Fantastic!"

"Brilliant!"

"Extraordinary, truly extraordinary."

The first night this man, John shot a cabbie to save his life. After that life became a whirl wind of running through London, late night take away, giggling (had he ever giggled before?), cases, tea, crap telly, and so much more. This John Watson was an enigma, a healer who killed, a man of temper and endless patience, and something he had never had, a friend.

"Um… Ben?" a voice drifted through the labyrinth of the actor's mind, causing him to blink back into the white room.

"Pardon?" Oh, his head. It felt as though it was in a slowly constricting vice grip.

"Ben you're stroking my hair," the performer looked down to see his fingers were indeed carding through the other man's sandy blonde locks. While he attempted to process this Benedict watched his fingers pull back and make another run through Martin's mop before he was able to take back full control of the limb. "I don't know if those nutters are Johnlockers," Martin continued, "but… um I'm already taken. It's pretty serious," the shorter man explained with a somewhat lighter tone, "what with the kids, and love and all."

Benedict's hand withdrew quickly, finding a home amongst the dust on the floor, "my apologies," the baritone hummed, "I didn't realize I was doing it… I was," Ben let the sentence hang in the air as both hands flew up to apply pressure to his occipitofrontal as a moan escaped his lips.

"Ben?" The actor heard a shuffling until a pair of hands were placed gently on each side of his skull behind his own. "Ben, what's going on? You have to talk to me so I can help."

"My head, there is too much. It's too full. Everything is mashing together and I can't make it stop." He inhaled a raspy breath, "It won't stop."

"There's too much of what? Benedict can you open your eyes for me?"

Ben unscrewed his eyes and tilted his face up until he was looking into the face of his friend. The first thing he noted was that the fog, the ever constant haze around the other man was beginning to clear. He could see in him the nerves of steel, the watchful eye of a medical practitioner, the soft probing touch of a surgeon. No, wait that was not correct, this information was incompatible with what he already had of his friend. Ben cleared this information from his mind, but another thought continued to pick at him.

"Martin," Ben voiced, "do I have a brother?"

The fingers analyzing the pressure points on his head slowed as Martin swept his eyes over the pale thin face.

"I don't think so, at least you've never mentioned him. You have a sister, Tracie I think."

"No," the taller man shook his head, "I remember playing pirates with an older boy, but he was my senior by at least five years. It is odd for young children to have friends that much older than them, thus I assume it to be a brother."

"Maybe a cousin?"

"Maybe…" the younger man became quiet as he fell back into his thoughts.

"You're pupils are blown wide, but I don't feel any bumps. Are you having any hallucinations?"

"I'm not sure," Benedict muttered.

"Come again?"

"I said," came a deep seethe, "I'M. NOT. SURE." Ben jumped to his feet faster than what seemed humanly possible, effectively causing Martin to tumble backwards with a thud. "You can't do this," Ben caught some of his dyed locks in his hands, pulling in the hopes of relieving some of the pressure in his skull. "Do you hear me?! You must know you can't get away with this," he crossed the room until he stood under the speaker, "one of you must have a connection to this building, why else would you have brought us here? The lights are on so the electric company knows there is someone here, so far so obvious," He began to pace the length of the room while he continued to worry his curls, "and then there are the CCTV cameras. Big brother is on every corner in London; do you really think you were intelligent enough to cart two unconscious men around without being seen?"

"Ben…"

"But then," the words flew at rapid succession, dripping with acid, "we were abducted from a studio where we were to be interviewed about the Hobbit. One person not showing up, troublesome, but both of us going missing? You know someone must be looking into that, extremely poor planning on the part of you lot."

"Benedict you nee…"

"Oh, and let's not forget that Martin has a family," angry hands flew up in the air as the irate actor flourished to avoid hitting the wall, turning back to complete his sixth lap across the room. "You're little story about us going off somewhere to read lines may work in my case, but do you really think his family will think it's normal that he has not contacted them? Idiots. All of you are bloody idiots, and if…"

"Sherlock!"

"What John?!" the words were laced with venom as Ben snapped his head around allowing his eyes to flash an angry silver at his friend.

The room fell into a tense silence as both men stared the other down.

"You called me Sherlock," Ben breathed, "why would you…" the actor's face suddenly twisted in on itself as he fell to his knees.

Martin rushed to him, "What happened, what's going on?"

"Walls," the spindly man had begun to pull his hair once more, to the point where his red roots were visible.

"Walls? Are you having a panic attack? You have to breath."

"No, not literal walls figurative… walls are forming in my head. A… building, a palace is materializing."

"A mind palace?" Martin exhaled.

Unable to answer the taller man simply nodded.

"Okay, alright. Ben I need you to listen to me, are you listening?"

Benedict hummed his compliance even though his brain was experiencing an upheaval of unprecedented proportion.

"Good, good, okay. A mind palace is a way of organizing information, and since it seems you're in pain it's probably safe to bet that you're not doing this, right? Or at least that this wasn't your idea?"

Benedict attempted to sneer 'Obviously' (really, what a ridiculous question) when another wave of pain slammed against the calcium infused cranium walls causing him to roll onto his other side, effectively turning away from Martin. The tall actor curled his limbs into himself until his being was compressed into a small ball.

Too loud, everything was too loud. Why was Martin so close? His worried thoughts were mingling with Ben's pain, and his breath was blistering on the taller man's skin stinging with heat, and leaving a sticky condensation of stale water clinging to his dermis. How ridiculously irritating! Couldn't he see he was causing more harm than good?

A sweltering heaviness wrapped itself around one of Ben's hands which were squeezing his head in the hopes that the pressure would relieve some of the pain (it did not). Benedict released a feral growl and swiped furiously at the fire encompassing his appendage; the move seemed to be effective as the pain removed itself so the actor only had to deal with the agony in his skull. There was a foundation laid, and the walls were fully constructed, a second story was being added, and rooms were separating. Inside his head was chaos. Absolute unadulterated chaos, Benedict briefly prayed that this would be the end. That his body would give out so he could embrace the soft, quiet darkness of oblivion. What he wouldn't give for some heroine right now.

A murmuring sound cut through the red and orange distress that had until recently been the actor's mind, at first Ben tried to flinch away from it fearing it would add to the agony he was currently experiencing.

"No," he managed to gasp. Ah, a word. Good he had been afraid that in ripping itself apart his brain may have lost that ability, but then these, his thoughts were words, or were they? Was he thinking in words? Had he stopped thinking in words? If not words what had his thoughts become? Images. Yes, that was logical. Wait, was it logical? Indeed his mind seemed to be placing these images into the facility it had been building, but were visual representations a better way to stock data than the combination of letters via rules to convey meaning? Intriguing, perhaps a study was needed to gauge the effectiveness of words as compared to imagined objects. Yes, that was the next obvious step in this query. How to go about it? Oh yes, one must simply…

The pain reasserted itself after its small reprieve sending the man back into the internal world of searing shades and scorching reverberations. Ben flailed in an attempt to free himself from the domain, but it was to no avail. Being unable to control it, a small broken whimper escaped from betwixt his lips. This seemed to coax the comforting murmuring back into existence, and Ben clung to it, the sound's light greens and blues a refreshing oasis against the stark burning backdrop.

All the while the palace continued to manifest itself. Tall brownstone towers were placed at the corners, scraping at the angry inflamed sky, and a third floor emerged atop the second. The rooms, there were so many rooms, but to all this the actor paid no mind. Instead his eyes followed the weaving aqua and emerald whips which wrapped around his being and began to pull him upward, enfolding him in its easy, cool presence and lifting him from the abyss below. Ben suddenly became aware that while he could see, his eyes were indeed closed. The tall man peeled his lids opened and was bombarded by a penetrating white light. He closed them once again, sure his eyes had been burned from their sockets, but then the calm tints came back, cajoling him into the other world. Ben pulled in a stabilizing breath and cracked one eye open. The flare was still intense, but a magnificent entity blocked the journey of the light waves to his retinas. Martin. Martin was there blocking the light. Ben forced a small smile to show his thanks, and the other man took this as a cue to open his mouth. The blue and green flowed fourth, encircling both men in their wispy glow.

"…make a room…" the words curled around Martin's head like smoke rising from a pipe. Ben had been busy focusing on the swirls, and vaguely wondering if he was having a stroke when it occurred to him that what his friend was saying might be important.

"What?" the words came out as a slur, but to the actor's delight he found he could create the colors too. Ornate purple and burnt orange rose from his mouth and hovered above his face before dissipating into the atmosphere around them. Wait, no. Focus. What was Martin saying? Luckily the other man seemed to notice Ben's wondering attention, and waited until eye connection was reestablished before speaking again.

"Ben, make a room for your memories."

Ben tilted his head to the side feeling himself slipping back into the jagged world inside his skull. Why would Martin want him to make a room for his memories? Was that not the purpose of a mind palace, to store memories? He was already doing that, Hell he had a whole palace for that reason. "That's," his hoarse slur sounded as indignant as a slur could, "that's the point…obviously."

This statement was met with a shake of the shorter man's head. Had he said something not good? Ben's face wrinkled into an expression of confusion, seeing this Martin tried again.

"Memories of Benedict… of being Ben."

That was highly illogical. How would memories of being Benedict help him in his work? Surely space would be better utilized with information about languages, ink, or any one of hundreds of beneficial topics. That was the problem with ordinary people, always filling their hard drives with useless information,… but then there were many memories of Benedict, so he had to have been important, meant something?

No, that was sentiment, dangerous impractical sentiment. There was no use for these memories, no matter what that irritating niggle in the back of his cognizance advocated. The man had come to this reasonable decision when his eyes connected with the man above him. Perhaps his associate could explain why he was experiencing this doubt.

"Why? ...Useless information, no dis…cernable need."

"Because I need you to remember him. Will you do that?" The aqua had deepened to cobalt, and a single tear fell from the cheek above to Ben's, "Just that one thing. Don't forget who you are. Don't leave me alone here. Please, can you do that for me?"

This was ridiculous. Why would he…and yet there was a feeling, a drop in his stomach which somehow made his chest feel hollow. Perhaps this Ben was important. Either way it could not hurt to sort the information, save the important and delete the rest. Nodding his head at this decision the tall man looked back up to the desperate face towering over him.

"Try," he whispered, "I'll try." With this promise made the lanky limbs relaxed and their owner was pulled down into the abyss once more, closing silver eyes to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts
> 
> -One in every twenty three people experience some form of synesthesia. NEUROLOGY!!! I established the compound changes channels in the brain, so I think it makes sense that senses would get crossed at some point. That is what is happening to Benedict with the color/sound mix.
> 
> -I have synesthesia while experiencing migraines; I tried to explain what I happens in my brain by making Ben live through it. You'll have to let me know if it makes sense or not.
> 
> -I have watched Sherlock with a migraine and yes, those are the colors of Benedict's and Martin's voices in my head (or at least that is the best explanation I can offer. It feels lacking).
> 
> -I may have slightly mimicked John's graveyard speech in Martin's pleas. Please don't kill me.


	6. Chapter 6

When had he collected so much useless information?

Calculus: unnecessary. Delete.

First kiss: tedious. Delete.

Uta Hagen: superfluous. Delete.

Really it was no wonder his hard drive was struggling to keep up, having to sort through all this rubbish. He continued to walk down the passages of the palace, encountering information which had not been spirited away into one room or another and deciding each thought's fate.

Prime Minister: redundant. Delete.

The longest word in the English language: Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis. Why was that here? Delete.

Secondary school graduation: trivial. Delete.

Solar system: dele… wait. No, John still rubbed that in his face. Allocate: short term storage.

The man continued to meander around; poking his head into each room to be sure everything had settled into its place. Some quarters' walls were covered in tomes and documents, while others contained ornate rugs and vases. Nodding with satisfaction, the lean figure continued his stroll and repairs until he came to something peculiar; a door.

That in and of itself was not abnormal in the least, all of the chambers consisted of ingresses, acting as barriers for the information. Essentially, he could enter, but the data could not depart nor mix. No, doors were an integral part of his mind palace. What was strange though were the qualities of this door. It was constructed from an unvarnished red pine, a stark contrast to the dark polished walnut mimicking the doors of his childhood home which all the other spaces possessed. There was no embossed label stating the function of the space which was odd and immediately irksome. What could lurk behind this peculiarity? Curious, the being approached, placed his hand on the knob and began to twist only to be met with resistance. Locked. The door was locked? Why was it locked? How was it locked?

The man tried the handle once more only to feel the opposition of the mechanism. This had never happened before. Stepping back the lithe being focused on the door willing it to move and concede to him, sluggishly the door issued the tiniest of creaks, but the metal and wood held firm. Upon further inspection he found that on the knob lay a small incision, a key hole. It seemed the only way to enter the room was with its key, but feeling about his person the male found no such item. Why would he lock something away, deny himself the ability to perceive it? Frustrated to find his domain lacking he pulled himself back onto the physical plane.

The first sensation he became aware of was a crippling thirst. Each breath being pulled down to his lungs stung the raw skin of his dry throat, while the hot air he exhaled seared with a throbbing agony. Instinctively he tried to swallow only to find his mouth severely deficient of any saliva.

"Wat," he rasped trying to voice his need, "water…"

"Don't move," a familiar tone called from a short distance away.

The sound of foot falls approached and soon the man felt his upper half being lifted by a strong arm while something was pressed to his lips. He opened his mouth to take an experimental taste to find a satisfying coolness drench his internal fire. Bringing his hand up the thankful man grasped the container and gulped greedily at the liquid manna.

"Slow down," the other soothed, "you're going to make yourself sick." A warm hand came up to cover his own, and reluctantly the parched being allowed the bottle to leave his mouth. "I know how thirsty you are, believe me, but you're going to shock your body and end up throwing up all of that. I don't think it would feel as good the second time through."

"I'm willing to experiment."

A soft chuckle rose, "you say that now, but I'm not going to hold your hair while you spew up."

A low rumbling moan rattled from the taller man at the very thought. Turning he buried his face in the warm scratchy folds of his friend's jumper. His counterpart did not seem to take notice save for the fact that his hand came to tangle in the darkened curls. "It's a small wonder they finally realized that we may need food and water. Considering they have a doctor with them and all" the lighter voice continued, "after you passed out I noticed it in the far corner. How are you feeling?"

"Terrific," the wool did nothing to mask the sarcasm.

For a moment the only sound was the two men's breathing echoing around the empty chamber, the slightly disoriented one took this time to notice that he had been covered with a comforting heavy weight. Oh, his coat, good. That was… good.

"You scared me you know," the jumper wearer finally spoke up, "you were in so much pain, so confused," the voice died out then, but continued a moment later, "I was afraid… afraid you wouldn't come back."

Pain? Had he been in pain to the point he had let John witness it? Sherlock searched his short term memory bank only to find the information absent. In fact, all memory of the last few days was absent. What was the last thing he remembered? The flat. Yes they had been at the flat preparing for Moriarty's trail; Sherlock was meant to be a key witness. The man unburied his head and cracked an eye open to take in his current surroundings.

Cheaply painted walls, floor covered in dust containing metal flakes, mold hanging from the room's corners. Conclusion: they were being held in a subversive level of a disused factory, obvious. How long had they been there? Judging by the small redistribution of grime in the recently made trails through long undisturbed dust, coupled with his severe thirst he could estimate their confinement to be at present three to four days long. Moriarty. Although it lacked his usual ostentatious style the pieces fit…

"Hey, are you still with me?" John's voice filtered through his thoughts. John, he must protect John.

"M fine," the taller man lied, hoping his friend could not feel the slight elevation of his heart rate as he considered their options.

"Are you sure? You're becoming clammy." The detective felt his head being tipped back until his eyes could rest on the shorter man's face.

The dark haired man rolled his eyes, "Yes John, I'm fine."

Blood drained from the blonde's face, leaving it a yellowish pale, his pupils dilated: fear. Why would that answer elect fear?

"John?" A string of panic inadvertently slipped into the normally composed voice. It was caused by the look in his friend's eyes, a look of unfamiliarity which the detective wanted to wipe away desperately. "John what is it?"

"You… you're calling me John."

"Of course I'm calling you John," Sherlock sat up so he could look into the doctor's face, "that's your name."

"No," the other man whispered, "no it isn't. My name," the solider squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, "my name is…"

Out of anxiety Sherlock reached up to grasp the other man's head, "Your name is John Hamish Watson," the head between his hands twisted side to side but the taller man continued, "you were a military doctor, but you were shot and invalid home…"

"no."

"You were looking for a flat share in London. You ran into an old friend from Bart's, Mike Stamford he introduced us, remember?"

"Please stop," John's voice shook but Sherlock carried on.

"When we first met I deduced everything about you, and when I explained it later do you remember what you said?"

The shorter man's head tied to pull away but long fingers held firm.

"You said it was amazing," a constricted chuckled flavored the word, "and then you… you saved me that very same night. You shot a cabbie to save a man you had just met."

"It's… that wasn't real."

"Yes it was John, please" the taller man begged, "please try to remember. We've had all kinds of adventures, you blog about it, and force me to eat, and be cordial to idiots, and I complain, but do it anyway, do you know why John?"

"Don't…"

"Because you're my friend, you're my best and only friend. I give you the excitement that you need and, and you put up with me, you let me know when I've done something not good, and you forgive me. Please John you have to remember."

Strong hands grasped Sherlock's wrists, pulling his hands from the pained face. "That's not real," the smaller man's voice heaved, "none of that actually happened."

The consultant felt the corners of his eyes burn hot, as a knot tied itself firmly in his throat, "Fine," the word felt choked with anger and hurt, "what is 'real" then?"

The other man took a stabilizing breath and closed his eyes, "Amanda… Amanda, Joey, and Grace, they're real."

"Oh," the detective sneered, "and who pray tell are they?"

"They're…" the face creased tight, but then relaxed, "they are my family. I need to stay, keep hold for them. There are people out there who care about us, both of us, and we need to get back to them."

The detective's eyes widened as he was hit by abrupt recognition. Pouncing on the other man he began scrambling for his arm.

"What are you doing?!"

"Proving my theory. You're pale, and you're eyes are slightly dilated, combine this with the fact you shiver every few moments, and all I need to see to be sure," finally grasping both of his friend's arms the detective pushed up the material to show the red track marks anointing the crooks, "is the physical proof." Sherlock smiled a mixture of pride and relief. "You've been drugged, most likely with an amnesiac, and hallucinogenic."

"I…" John started, but was cut off by Sherlock's bellow. The man had stood up, pulling on his great coat as though putting on armor for battle.

"I know what you're trying to do," the walls seemed to shake with his deep reverberations, "have you enjoyed your little show? Watching me squirm? Really," a mirthful chuckle erupted from his diaphragm, "is this how you planned to burn me? Rather disappointing after you're build up."

The speaker in the room crackled to life, mixing with the echo of the man's voice. "Mr. Holmes," the thrilled female voice cooed, "so nice of you to finally join us."

"I want to talk to your boss."

"Oh what," the voice trifled, "I'm not good enough for you now?"

"Not in the least. It's obvious you're a low ranking pawn, why else would you be placed on monitor duty?"

The air shook with a breathy giggle, "Would you believe I requested it? I could watch the two of you for days."

"Noted, now your boss please."

"Oh certainly," at these words the sound of the heavy metal door disengaging became evident. Into the room sauntered two men armed with handguns and sporting face masks, both took stance and let their aim fall on Sherlock Holmes. "If you would please follow my associates I'm sure we can get this all worked out."

"I'm not leaving without John."

"Sorry dear," the voice chided, "but the boss doesn't like pets brought into her office, they can be so unpredictable. I'm afraid Johnny is going to have to stay here."

Unacceptable, he was not going to leave his flat mate behind drugged to the point he could not tell fantasy from reality, but then the idiot had said her boss was a 'her', female. Not Moriarty, then. But who?

"No harm is to come to him while I'm gone."

"Cross my heart. In fact you may be pleased by his condition upon your return. I'm sure he'll seem more… himself."

"Fine," the low growl left thinned lips, "but know that I hold you personally accountable. If you're mendacious in any way I will find you, and by the time I am done you will wish you never heard the name Sherlock Holmes."

The noise which escaped the speaker sounded like a cross between a startled weasel and a garbled rendition of the English word 'feels.' Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, he was not sure that was the reaction he was trying for.

"This way Mr. Holmes," one of the awaiting men grumbled, apparently realizing the voice at the speaker controls would be preoccupied for the next many moments.

Ignoring him Sherlock turned back to his friend, sitting dazed on the floor.

"Don't worry John, I'll be back," he attempted a reassuring smile and hoped it came across as desired. Nodding his curls the detective turned on his heels and made his way towards the open door."

"Be…," a frustrated huff followed the attempt to form a nearly forgotten word. Sherlock stalled his course, but did not turn around, having already come to the conclusion that he could not take anything John said currently to heart. Still he could not walk out on his friend whilst he was trying to reach out, and so he waited as the other tried again.

"Be…Bene…Benedict," the other voice sounded elated when it finally produced the syllables. "Benedict. That's your name, that's who you really are."

Sherlock felt a jolt run through his chest as the skin on his arms rose into goose pimples. Why would he experience such a physical reaction to that statement?

"Ben?" The detective could hear the hope in his blogger's voice, his reaction must have been more physical then he originally thought. His transport had betrayed him and given John more fuel for his delusions. Angry with himself the tall figure shoot his head, with the attempt to dispel the word which had struck him so. Try as he might the consultant could still feel it ghosting around until it finally slipped into his mind palace. He would have to delete it later.

"Don't worry John," the detective whispered resuming his walk to the door, "I'm going to fix this."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The views about useful information mentioned are those of Sherlock Holmes (in my mind), not my own. Calculus is crazy impressive and you should never delete it if you have learned it.
> 
> I'm sorry, I do not seem to know how to end a chapter without it being a cliff hanger.


	7. Chapter 7

Upon reaching the guards Sherlock was escorted at gun point out of the brightly lit room to the shadowy hallway. A slight air current existed there wafting the scent of age, dust, and what was that? Copper? The shorter of the two men took point, lowering his weapon to walk in front of the detective, while the other nudged the brunet in the back with the muzzle of his revolver.

"That really won't be necessary," drawled the deep baritone.

"Shut up and walk." The gruff eastern tongue spit, "The sooner we get this over with the better."

Sighing the detective began to walk, but purposely slowed his gate to irate the other man. This excursion was proving to be boring, quite boring indeed. Neither man's gun was loaded, although the man leading the way did have a slight buildup of sock fuzz on the neck of his left shoe while the other was free of such debris. Hiding a clip in his pant leg then, checks it when no one is looking, probably thinks he's clever. Body says slight military experience, but the sloppy hand hold on his gun indicates low levels of training, entry infantry rank at best. Dull. With nothing but a simple game of follow the leader to keep the detective busy he quickly slipped back into the domain of his mind, surely these citrons would let him know when they reached their destination.

Sherlock materialized in the memory wing; perhaps he had already sorted the last few days away unconsciously. That would explain his current memory gap. Striding through the corridor the detective was soon passing the well-remembered rooms, childhood, adolescence (smallest in this wing; not much worth keeping), early adulthood, late adulthood, John, and Moriarty. Yes, that would be the one.

If the detective had been working under the false impression that this case pertained to the master criminal then he would have inadvertently stored the information here. He was just about to push the door in when he had an inkling, it was as though there was an internal itch at nape of his neck, Odd. Turning fluidly the shadow of the tall man fell upon an idea lying in the hallway. Ah, it was that gibberish John had spoken. Good he had planned to search for it later, one less thing to worry about he thought as he approached the aforementioned notion. Picking item up, it automatically opened to display the word: Benedict. Sherlock could not help but smile to himself, even in a delirious state John had gifted him with a rather exclusive name; perhaps that was cause of optimism. It would have been more troubling if John had tried to convince him is name was Gorge or Arthur. In an odd way, the detective mused, the name did seem to fit him, Benedict. He tried it out.

"Benedict."

It did have a pleasant flow, and agreeable cadence.

"Ben-e-dict."

Perhaps he should hang on to it for now. Store it away in John's room so they could laugh about it later when they were returned home, tell Mrs. Hudson about it over tea and biscuits.

No.

Delete it.

It is not valuable in any regards.

Delete it.

Yes, of course what was he thinking? Keeping clutter like this around would only slow down his hard drive. Sherlock looked back onto the idea in question, it was not useful to the work, and thus it should be terminated. His mind made up, the detective passed his judgment.

Benedict: Useless. Dele…

Before he could finish the protocol an object caught the man's attention. Out of the corner of his eye he spied the lackluster red pine door. No, that was impossible; it had not been in this arm earlier. Still holding the idea in his hand Sherlock turned to face the object in question. Against all odds there it stood. Like a moth to flame the detective moved towards the oddity, running his eye up and down the surface. First this anomaly showed up, then it had the audacity to deny him access, and now it was following him around his palace, mocking him. Great as if he did not have enough to worry about with John going looney, and their current captured status, let's add a mental breakdown of his own to the list. Might be fun; why not?

Leering at the door with all the animosity he could muster in the desperate hopes that it may burst into a blaze and parish, the detective stepped closer still to the ingress. To his surprise the edges began to glow. Oh, this was new, this was exciting. What could be causing this reaction? What was the catalyst? Variables, what variables had changed since the last sighting of the door? Different hallway: yes, but the object moved here on its own accord: dismissed. The door: No discernable changes bared the fact it is glowing [result, not variable]: dismissed. Himself: still Sherlock Holmes: terminated. No the only new factor seemed to be… Sherlock considered the idea still in his hand.

"This is silly," a small comforting voice wafted through the hall.

Wait. Comforting? Why would that voice be comforting? The detective blinked his eyes forcefully snapping himself out of the siren like trance the tone had placed upon him. Was it familiar? Had he heard it before?

'There is no need to hold onto Benedict, Sherlock,' the voice soothed, "delete him."

Yes… that did make sense, (wait no it doesn't, and did she say 'him'? Was Benedict more than a word? Why would she… but she is right, Cassie is always right) perhaps deleting Benedict was for the best. At this thought an intense buzzing contentment swirled in the detective's toes and curled up his mental being. In the memory corridor of the mind palace Sherlock collapsed to his knees at the sheer volume of bliss he was experiencing, he became vaguely aware that his transport had taken on what could only be described as a ridiculous grin, but he could care less.

"Yes Sherlock, good. Following directions will lead to intense serenity, and you want to follow my directions, you want to feel this peaceful."

The mental blob hummed its agreement.

"Delete it Sherlock, and you will feel compete intoxication. That is what you want isn't it?"

Oh, he did want it, that sounded…unbelievable… but the door.

"Don't worry about the door," the murmur breathed, "it doesn't matter."

"But what is it?" Sherlock pushed himself up until his back was supported by the charmingly papered wall. Curiosity out weighting the pleasure he was enduring.

"It's not important; all you need to do is delete that."

The detective dropped his gaze to the idea. It was just an idea… if it was important he could relearn it again later… but the door, it caused the door to react. If he deleted it he may never open the room in his mind palace. No. This was not acceptable.

"No," the happily slurred voice exclaimed.

"No?"

"I think this can open the door. I need to know."

"No," the voice rose harshly clenching the euphoria into stabbing misery, "what you need to do is delete it!"

Pushing against the mental pain to stand, the detective slid his way across the wall. He had to know, had to find out. Holding Benedict tight to his chest Holmes made slow progress towards the door.

Five steps away.

Now three.

One…

The pine door dissipated into a warming glow, and Sherlock dove through rematerializing the protection in his wake.

With the sudden potency and sting of the cognitive experience, the thin physical body collapsed to the grimy concrete floor.

"What did you do?" A foggy voice sputtered above him.

"It wasn't me," another protested, "he must have slipped."

"Told you we should have brought them that food sooner, it's amazing he made it this far without collapsing."

"Well what are we going to do? The girls can't see 'im like this. They'll freak in the worst way."

The buckled man moaned, partly to let them know he was conscious but mostly to get them to shut up. His two enthralling guards, lovely.

"You hear that? He's coming around. Help me to get him up."

Four hands reached down and lifted the tall being to his feet. Sherlock steadied himself by grasping a bicep on each man.

"You okay Mr. Holmes?" It was the shorter one with all the fixings for a gun. He was on the right side. Good.

"Yes," came the profound rumble, a predacious split breaking on his face, "I think I am."

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

Martin lay on the dust covered floor. Well, no he was not sure if that statement was quite true. It seemed Martin was having what real psychologists, (the ones who treat people, not theorize about the childhoods of fiction characters) would call an existential crisis.

He was sure, absolutely positive that he was a father, had two kids named… named… oh what were their names? One started with a J and the other a G… Jenny and Greg? No, no that was not right. Jeff? Jerold? Joe. Yes! He had a son named Joe and his little girl… his little girl was Grace. Yes, good. There had been one more person, important. Their mother. What was her name? He could not find it, it wasn't there. It's okay, don't panic two out of three wasn't bad, right? Closing his eyes he found a mental image of the three, but was it that fuzzy before? Had it always been so hard to make out their faces?

Martin shot his eyes open. No it's okay, he told himself, you're just groggy that's all. Just woke up from a little nap, it's always hard to imagine things when you've just woken up, brains not moving at full speed just yet, that's all.

Other things just think about other things. Um…job; yes he would think about his job! What was his job? What did he do? The man possibly known as Martin dug the heel of his hands into the sockets of his skull. Think, he told himself, I work with Ben. Good, yes we work together. What do we do?

Martin's arms flopped wide out beside him, causing a small cloud of dust to rise in their wake.

One time, Martin thought, he had been in space with a man named Ford Prefect. They left Earth because… because it was demolished to make room for a hyperspace bypass, but then was rebuilt by mice.

42.

Mostly harmless.

DON'T PANIC.

No, that didn't make sense. Did it? Think, oh, a realization struck him, an office. He had worked in an office once. The Wernham Hogg Paper Company, Slough branch. It should have been boring… but it was funny?

That didn't fit either.

No.

Think Ben.

What had they done?

He had been a burglar (really? Well that is what his contract said) hired by some dwarfs to steel from a dragon and Ben was the dragon.

The blonde laughed aloud at that idea. Benedict wasn't a dragon. Before this thought had a chance to cross the entirety of his brain however, an auditory memory began to play in the other man's low baritone:

"I kill where I wish and none dare resist. I laid low the warriors of old and their like is not in the world today."

Martin's heart stopped. Was Ben a dragon?

No.

Nope.

He'd been drugged. That's it. Sherlock told him that he was drugged and if anyone would know it would be his nutter flat mate. But…

He had a family. Why would he have a flat mate if he had a partner and two kids? KIDS? What were their names again? Glades and Jack? No…

And wasn't Sherlock, Ben?

Or was Ben, Sherlock?

Sherben?

Benlock?!

It was this moment when Martin decided if he had lost his mind he might as well enjoy it. His arms were already thrown out to the sides. What the hell? Dust angels.

"What are you doing?" a deep hum questioned about two minutes into his new activity.

Martin sat up to see his taller counterpart leaning against the frame of the open door, arms crossed. The picture of nonchalance.

"Dust angels," Martin shrugged.

A dark eyebrow rose at this, but continued regardless "Well, if you're not too occupied with that, it seems my escort finds me too difficult to handle. I agreed to cooperate if you could come along. The boss is going to have to make an exception to her no pets rule."

The dust covered man peered out the door, "You gave them that much trouble?"

"Oh yes," the brunet said with a smile, which quickly changed to a puzzled frown, "not good?"

Martin could not help the wide grin which spread on his face, he did not have to be alone with his thoughts anymore, "I think we can let it slide this time."

XXX

Following his friend into the hall Martin quickly realized that they were shockingly on their own. The blonde looked to the right and then the left, but there continued to be an absence of masked armed guards.

A sudden rumble interrupted his musings, "Here," Martin looked down to see a gun had been shoved into his hands, he looked up to question this only to find the tails of the dark coat disappearing around the far left corner.

"Wait," the sorter man hissed, running to catch up with the disappearing figure. To his surprise the other man had paused just around the corner, anxiously shifting his weight from the ball of one foot to the other, but waiting for him to catch up nonetheless. Huh, the detective had never waited for him before.

"You have questions," the taller man stated as he initiated his quick walk once again.

"You're damn right I have questions," Martin breathed falling into step with the other man, "where are the guards?"

"Oh them? Cupboard eighth door on the right in," curls flicked back down their passed route, "that direction."

"Jesus, how…"

"I'm a single stick expert, boxer, and swordsman, along with having some experience in the realm of Japanese wrestling, more commonly known as Baritsu. That along with the fact that those two Neanderthals had little to no fighting experience and empty guns made it a relatively simple task to knock them out."

Martin ejected the clip from the handle of the handgun, the cartridge was full.

"Ah that," the bass continued seeming to read the other's mind, "the shorter man had attempted to hide the ammunition in his sock, left to be precise. How he thought this would help him I haven't a clue, but then I'm not an idiot so," he shrugged seeing the rest of the thought as unimportant.

"Okay, but then why…"

"Why did I give it to you?" The two men began to ascend a flight of stairs, the little light in the hallway dimming as they continued. "Well when one takes into account the fact that you have the memories of an individual who has been to war, and is known to be a crack shot the obvious decision was to hand the weapon over to you. Really Martin, use your gray matter."

The shorter man stopped in his tracks, "You… you called me Martin."

The brunet had continued his trek, but stopped when he heard the statement. "Yes, well… that is your name," he intoned still facing forward, away from the other man.

Martin's breath stuck in his throat, "Ben?"

"Not quite," not-quite-Ben admitted, letting his head drop forward in slight defeat.

The shorter man closed the gap between the two until he stood facing the other, "What do you mean 'not quite'?"

Blue-green eyes rose to find the blonde's face. Martin gave a small encouraging smile, pushing the other to continue.

"I… there was a door."

"A door?"

The taller man nodded, "In my mind palace. I couldn't open it at first. It needed a key, a key you gave me."

"Benedict," Martin gasped, suddenly understanding, "Wait. He did it then? Ben made a room for his memories."

The thin figure nodded, "I almost didn't get in; there was a voice, Cassie. She tried to get me to delete Benedict."

The shorter man paled, "Cassie? You ran into her?" He placed a hand onto his friend's shoulder, mostly to show support, and partly to keep his knees from giving out. He suddenly felt intensely tired.

Not-quite-Ben shook his head to the negative. "No," he whispered tapping a finger on the side of his forehead, "she's in here. Someone studied the method of Loci to impressive lengths. Essentially they've installed an anti-virus in my hard drive which is seeking out and destroying any part of Benedict it can find. Speaking of Cassandra I suggest we continue, they will notice that we are not headed to our new destination with the guards momentarily."

Martin nodded dumbly and continued as he absorbed the information, letting his body go through the familiar motions of following the other man. "So wait, we aren't going to see the boss?"

"No."

"Why not?"

The taller man sighed, "Because they never intended to take me to their boss. I had a little chat with the guards after I… persuaded their tongues to loosen. I was to be taken to see Cassandra for a final session, something about a fall, and the events after. Apparently this would have been the culmination of the psychological alteration. No, what we are doing is vacating the area."

"Oh," Martin breathed, feeling the blood in his veins turn to ice. The two fell into silence as the wool clad man considered the implications of his friend's words, only the reverberations of their steps on the metal stairs staving off the ringing in ears which silence often brings.

"He's coming back though," the baritone mumbled softly, pulling Martin back to the present.

"Sorry?"

"Benedict. I'm in his room now." The taller man answered as they came to the top of the stairs. He turned back to Martin and flashed a smile; to the actor's surprise it seemed much more genuine… more natural. "All of his memories, everything that he placed in here I can relive, I can remember. It is a little cluttered though," the smile receded, "perhaps I should clean it up a little. He couldn't possibly need all of this."

"Don't. You. Dare." The shorter man bit out.

The smile returned with a vengeance, "I'm kidding Martin," the words were punctuated with a deep chuckle as the tall man turned back and continued down the darkened corridor.

"I hate you, you git."

"No you don't," the rumble replied.

Martin felt himself smile, maybe they would be alright. They could get out of this. He could get home to…. Home to… to. The shorter man stopped dead in his tracks, "Ben?"

"That's the first time you've called me Ben since," The slight smile on the taller man's face fell when he took in the other's state, "Martin? Martin what is it?"

The blonde gripped his head, it had been hurting for some time but now it was excruciating, "I… I don't remember."

"What?" Panic took over the ivory face as Benedict raced back to his friend gripping him by his upper arms, "What don't you remember?"

Martin brought a hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching against the migraine.

"Martin?!"

"I don't know," he looked up fear abundant in his eyes, "I know I've forgotten something, but I can't remember what." Tears began to form in his eyes, the hand which had been pinching his nose wiped one away. "I'm crying. Ben why am I crying?"

Unsure what to do the taller man pulled the blonde to him in a tight embrace.

"It was important, wasn't it?" The other man sniffed, "That's why I'm crying."

Benedict pulled his friend closer to him, "I'm sorry Martin."

The shorter man pushed back against the hug slightly until he could see the other man's face. "That anti-virus you were talking about… it's in me too isn't it?"

Ben looked down, for the last few days he's brain had been moving so quickly, he had always had something to say, had always had an answer. Now though, he found himself at a loss for words. "I, uh…"

Both men turned at the sound of a door squeaking open down the far right side of the corridor. Voices echoed down the empty space reaching the two men.

"We have to move," Benedict whispered.

Martin nodded in agreement wiping away the wetness on his face. The duo began to sprint in the opposite direction, hopefully towards their freedom.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting towards the end guys! Thank you for reading and please leave a comment or kudo if you feel inclined.  
> Have a fantastic day,
> 
> Nikola


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but very important. Enjoy!

A dead end. No. this could not be happening. No. No. NO. NO! Benedict pulled in a deep breath spinning to take in their current location. What kind of an idiot puts dead ends into a factory? No, can't think about that now, he had to focus. Come on think!

The taller man's eyes fell on his companion. Martin stood facing the direction of the encroaching sound. His feet were shoulder-width apart, left foot a step in front of the right (fires with a right side stance even though his dominant hand is his left) leaning forward slightly with bent knees and a firm balance. The elbow of his right arm was nearly entirely straight while his left elbow was flexed at a slightly obtuse angle. His eyes though still red rimmed and puffy from tears had a fierce stillness to them, the eyes of a solider; the safety of his gun had been released with an audible click. The blonde's mouth was set in a thin line, any fear he was experiencing masked by sheer determination. He was ready to shoot, and shoot to kill.

Not acceptable, Benedict's mind supplied, and for once the actor felt he whole heartedly agreed. There had to be another way to get out of this then to let his friend's hands be stained with blood. Searching, the silver gray eyes cast around in the shadows, jumping about until they landed on a deeper darkness, an alcove. Stupid, he should have noticed that before!

"Martin," he whispered, the other man did not move. "Martin," he tried once more, the blonde did not even flinch. "Oh for God's sake," The taller man rushed towards the other using one hand to lower the semiautomatic whilst the other grabbed the bent crook of his friend's elbow, "come on," he hissed, "we have to move." Martin turned to him, gaze distant but complied when Ben pulled his arm once more. They ducked into the hidden corridor just as a torch beam ghosted over the space where they had only just been standing.

The recess was shallow, empty concrete walls led to a single medal door, a loading dock, perfect. The brunet rushed forward trying the handle, only to find it locked. Of course, great.

"Ben? Ben what happened…" The man in question turned around to find his comrade leaning against the wall, gun hanging loosely from his right hand while his left was spread on his forehead. The left hand dropped as the blue eyes surveyed their hiding space, "How did we get…?"

"Shush," Benedict quickly quieted his friend as both men pricked their ears. Foot falls could be heard slowly closing the distance to their location. No, no, no! They were so close. Benedict reached into his coat pocket pulling out a small torch, another girt from his masked escorts. Clicking in on, he combed the walls until the light fell on a key pad.

It was old, most likely from the late 1960's, it seemed the building had been in the stages of renovation at one point (most likely the 90's judging by the room they had been held in) made sense really, and worked in their favor. No, wait, no, the taller man released a vulnerable sigh.

"What?" Martin gasped, already taking on a similar stance to before, covering the entrance way.

"I know how to do this… it's in there I can feel it, but…"  
"But what?"

"I'm," Benedict paused, "I'm going to have to leave the room."  
"What?"

"My room, in the palace, and… if I do I'm afraid. I might not be able to get back in Martin."

The footsteps continued to echo down the hall, coming closer with each moment.

"Benedict, listen to me," Martin licked his lips but continued to a soft voice trying to keep his words from traveling too far, "If we stay here we're going to get caught, and you know they'll find a way to force you out of that room. We need to get out." He paused listening for the approaching enemy, "you made it in there before, you can do it again."  
Ben took a moment to absorb this information, Martin, his friend believed in him, maybe he could do this.

"Okay," Ben whispered as he mentally approached the interior pine door of the room, his room. "Okay," he crossed the threshold, stepping back into the hallway. The thoughts engulfed him instantaneously.

XXX

In the seventies most factories which used cyphers only used a simple four digit code. The pad which lay before him consisted of only ten numbers one thru nine and zero. Four numbers: one, seven, nine, and zero had considerable wear: good. This brought the possible combinations from ten thousand down to two hundred and fifty six, a much smaller field.

Ordinary people chose simple passwords, things which were they deemed easy to remember. A four digit code, the most obvious choice was a year: most likely answer 1-9-7-0, or 1970. Improbable: The age of the building and this technology suggested it was installed in the 1960's. The use of 1970 was highly unlikely.

The foot falls paused, perhaps they were turning around? No, that did not matter. They still needed to get out, and this… this was a puzzle.

Fingers. Oh yes fingers! Human phalanges are covered in oil called Sebum. This oil can cause wear on often used buttons on various surfaces, keyboards, push button phones, and most importantly in this case: key pads.

Of the worn numbers the one was most degraded, followed by the nine, zero and seven. 1-9-0-7. a possibility, but why…. Oh! Oh yes, of course the nineteenth of July; 19/07; most likely a birthday. Obvious. Benedict quickly typed in the number, and waited what felt like an eternity.

Was he wrong? Impossible, he was never wrong, perhaps the power to the system was cut off, yes that could be the case. He solved it, he knew he had solved it….

The tall man was pulled from his contemplations by a barely heard click. Wasting no time he grabbed the other man by the shoulders and pulled him into the room, doubling back to close the door silently behind them.

Both men lay in the darkness, listening for the footsteps. They soon approached, followed by an undiscernible mumbling. Two individuals, judging by the fact two different tones were distinguishable. Female based on the tones, some of the fan girls then. Both men held their breath as they listened to what sounded like a short argument before the voices began to recede.

"How, how did you?" Martin's voice questioned in the darkness.

"It was a simple process of elimination. Four of the numbers were worn from use, based off that, and the fact that humans choose rather monotonous pass codes It was either a year or a date. Going by the age of the technology, the year didn't fit so it had to be a date. The wear was most prevalent on the one, and then nine, zero, and seven respectively. So the sequence had to be 1907 or the nineteenth of July, child's play really."

"You worked all that out in what, six seconds?"

"I suppose, but I wasn't really keeping track."

"Amazing," the shorter man breathed.

A short silence followed before both men erupted into giggles, born of adrenaline and relief.

Martin suddenly shushed, causing Benedict to quiet down, "we can't giggle they're still looking for us." The reprieve lasted for a moment, before the laughter began again in full force, both men attempting to muffle it with their hands. It calmed soon after, and Ben turned on the torch once more searching their new surroundings.

They were in a much larger room, judging by the large retractable door, and oil stains on the floor this had once been used as a garage. The door consisted of a level lock, could only be opened from the inside then. Judging by their age, and reaction to the locked door, their keepers most likely were deficient in knowledge of this room; to their understanding there was no way to enter it. They were safe, for now.

The brunet turned back to his friend, casting the light onto his body still lying on the floor. He walked back to the other offering him a hand, only to be surprised when the blonde refused it whilst shielding his eyes.

"I'm not feeling well," Martin explained, answering the unvoiced question, "dizzy. I'll be alright; I just need to rest for a moment."

Ben hummed his agreement, settling down next to his friend. Even if Martin had consumed some food and water, chances were he would still be malnourished and dehydrated. It would be best to allow him a short respite before they continued. After all once they left this sanctuary they would most likely need to run; Martin would need his strength.

A weight suddenly landed on Benedict's knee, causing him to start slightly.

"Ben?"

"Yes Martin?"

A sigh of relief left the shorter man, "It's nothing, I just wanted to be sure you were still there."

Ben wrinkled his nose in slight confusion, before he considered that in the dark Martin would not be able to see it, "Where would I have gone?"

"You know what a mean."

Benedict searched his mind of a moment before the realization hit him, "You wanted to be sure I was still myself."

The other man made a noise of agreement.

"I'm not going anywhere. Promise."

The hand resting on his knee squeezed slightly, "So you've gone back in your room then."

"No."

Martin stirred, "No?"

"For us to get out of here, I need access to the information, his information. I have to be able to make choices in an instant, and that's not something I can't do without Sherlock's expertise."

A silence fell in the darkness, heavy and thick.

"Don't worry," long pale fingers wrapped around the warm smaller ones, "all I need to get back into the room is the key."

"But if you're out of the room, if you're out of the categorized information… won't Cassie be able to… to take that away? Take you away?"

"Oh, most certainly, but I have a backup system."

"You do?"

"Yep, you. You gave me the key once, you can do it again"

With a smile on his lips, Martin drifted into unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

Martin was awoken by a light shake of his shoulder. He answered with a confused mumble. Couldn't he have a few more minutes? He was having the most wonderful dream…or was it a memory?

"I know, but we need to move, come on." The familiar baritone mumbled.

Begrudgingly conceding to this fact the blonde groped around in the dark until his hand came into contact with his friends. After being helped to his feet, Martin reached back down to retrieve the hand gun, tucking it into the back of his pants. This done he nodded, but then remembered they were still surrounded by darkness and vocalized his readiness.

Hearing this, the other man turned oh his torch, lighting their way to the large garage door. Ben placed his hand onto the lever, and paused.

"Ready?" He breathed.

"Ready." Martin affirmed.

The taller man pushed down on the level, causing it to squeak, but not dislodge. He applied more pressure; the handle squealed with continued resistance before the rust and disuse finally gave way to the applied force with a concerto ending in a resounding boom.

In the dark the two men shared a glance, one filled with apprehension, and just a bit of excitement. Sensing that they were as ready as they were going to be, Benedict seized the door and pushed it upward with a resounding wail as the metal argued against the friction. They were soon greeted by fresh air and a darkened street.

"I don't believe it," Benedict breathed.

"What?"

A low chuckle resounded through the air, "London," a smile spread on the tall man's face as he stepped into the road pulling his gloves onto his hands. "We're still in London, oh this is glorious!" He spun to take in the view, the grin growing wider with each passing second, "We're just on the corner of Caird and Rayner, just on the other side of the Thames." He turned back to Martin wide smirk plastered on his face; they were going to be alright, they were going to make it. He probably would have continued on that train of thought if it were not for the potent force which took hold of his arm and slammed him into the slab wall across from the garage. The connected of bone and brick met with a resounding crack. Benedict watched the following events from the ground in a slow haze, unable to intervene.

Approaching him was a large man, clad in a ski mask, one of the guards then, but not one that he shoved in the cupboard. How many were there?

A group of individuals, ten most likely female based on their shape, height, and tone of voice (although it was hard to tell, everything was so fuzzy, and his ears, his ears were ringing) had huddled behind him, just down the street. No escape, there was no chance of escape. The brunet rested his head on the cool concrete, recently wet with rain. Well, that was London for you. This thought in mind Benedict closed his eyes, attempting to enjoy his last breaths of free air.

"No!"

POP

POP

POP

Silver green eyes snapped open to find an encroaching river of crimson. Following the trail to the middle distance Benedict took in the visage of the bulk laying a short stretch away. Lifeless auburn eyes regarded him, already beginning to glaze over. Its chest sported three holes, clustered around the left of the torso, leaking murky lifeblood. Pushing himself up from the earth Ben took in the scene before him. The gaggle of girls had clustered close together, silenced by fear. Sweeping back to the garage door the actor found the visage of his friend, standing gun drawn a dazed expression on his face.

Move, they had to move. The tall man stumbled to his feet, trying to ignore how the world swirled before his eyes. They had to get out of here, this was their chance; they had to run.

Tripping towards his colleague, the brunet began to mumble, "run." Martin did not move, except to train his gun on the other assailants. No. He came closer still, finding his footing more easily as he approached picking up speed. Anxiety outweighing injury, Benedict finally reached his shorter counterpart grasping his arm.

Finally having physical contact, Ben shook the wool clad shoulder, "We have to move!"

"Wha…?" the shorter man slurred, confusion running through his tenor, "what happened?"

"I'll explain later," the long figures gripped tighter into the material, "but we need to run," his voice rose with a slice of authority, "now!"

Benedict began to pull the other man in the opposite direction, the girls seemed to be coming out of their stunned stupor, and he wanted to retreat before either party decided to act violently. Numbly Martin nodded, and Benedict gave him one more pull before they both began to sprint towards the river.

XXX

The pounding of feet against concrete echoed as the two men closed the distance between themselves and their yet to be determined destination. Grabbing the would be detective's hand the blonde pulled the other man into a darkened alleyway where they ducked behind a large bin, effectively hiding them from sight. Both men steeled their breathing, straining their ears to listen for their pursuers. After what seemed like an eternity three sets of frantic footfalls could to be heard approaching, and finally passing. Martin released a sigh as he allowed himself to slip from his current crouching position to a tense puddle on the ground.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" He wheezed "This isn't right. The… the streets are still the same, but the stores are in the wrong places. No one, not even your brother could change London that much in a week." The doctor closed his eyes, "I don't understand? What's happened?"

Benedict who had been peering around the edge of the bin checking to be sure they were truly alone quickly spun around to his friend. His hands found their way to the shorter man's face as he looked into the dark blue eyes. The haze which always seemed to permeate the other being had completely dissipated; before the brunet sat John Hamish Watson former solider, doctor, his blogger and best friend. All the pieces of this man fit together perfectly, and the actor felt the desperate desire to believe it to be true. He had almost given into the urge, but for the one part of his brain screaming that it was wrong. It was all wrong.

The taller man shook his head trying to clear the momentous migraine permeating his entire being, "Ben" he whispered.

"What?"

"My name… my name is Ben," his eyes forced their way shut as he tried to focus on this one piece of information which did not fit with anything else, but he knew to be true, "and you're Martin. We have to re… remember that." His eyes opened again to find a worried face sandwiched between his hands.

"Sherlock," John, no Martin began; his initial worry about their distorted surroundings now transferring to the man before him, "hey your head was hit pretty hard back there." One of the blonde's hands came up to survey the other man's head with all the practiced care of a well versed doctor. He seemed to be unhappy with the information he was able to receive from the examination so he continued, "Do you feel nauseous? Dizzy?"

Ben shook his head to the negative, although it was not completely true. How Martin was acting was making his stomach roll.

"Let's get you somewhere safe so I can get a better look at that, yeah? I think you may have a concussion."

"Martin," Ben started "Martin are you still in there? Please tell me you're still there, somewhere." His leather clad fingers began to urgently curl against the cheeks of the familiar yet wrong face before him. His eyes frantically ran over the short form, looking for any trace of the former actor, anything that did not scream John Watson. They found nothing, and Ben felt something inside his chest snap as tears formed in his eyes; a morning for a friend who had passed quietly by his side. A friend whose body was now occupied by another.

"Sherlock. Sherlock it's me John. Look at me please." Benedict shook his head trying to push out the forces telling him to trust the other man's words. They felt so right, it would be so comforting if he just gave in; all of the cogs would sit together effortlessly allowing his thoughts to flow, for this to make sense. The pain would go away, the throb in his mind from resisting, and the newer ache in his chest caused by grieving. Everything would be logical, it would be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson against the rest of the world, 'as it should be' his traitorous brain supplied. "Sherlock please," Ben was pulled out of himself by the slight rasp, "You're scaring me."

Ben lifted his eyes to meet those of John Watson. They were in a frightful agony and Ben realized the army doctor was suffering a similar kind of anguish as he was; the possibility of losing a dear friend taking over the entirety of his face. He felt the need to stop the other's suffering, and he told himself that it was Benedict's kind nature, and not Holmes' friendship with Watson which lead to his next actions.

"Let's go home… John."

The former solider drew a harried breath as his hand fell from the curly hair down to the sunken cheek of his comrade. "You know what is going on then?" his eyes searching those of pseudo-detective, "You know who you are?"

Ben scoffed and rolled his eyes, the action felt so natural he could not even call it acting. "John really, of course I know who I am." The bravado in his voice picked up more than he initially intended, but he pushed on, "I'm Sherlock Holmes: the world's only consulting detective. I solve cases the police are too idiotic to figure out themselves, why can't people think John? Regardless, I live at 221B Baker Street with you John Watson, my flat mate who feels the unnecessary urge to blog about our cases in a rather unscientific way. You were an army doctor in Afghanistan until you were invalid home by a shot to your shoulder. You take your tea with milk no sugar, your favorite jam is strawberry, and you have an insufferable need to check on my wellbeing. Is that enough to be going on?"

Ben slammed his eyes shut and clasped his forehead in his hands, his brain hummed happily from the admittance of the facts it had been supplying, but up until now had not been fully accepting. The actor felt the final pieces of himself slipping away as the drug and suggestions began to mold the last of his thoughts into those of Sherlock Holmes.

"No, no stop, I didn't mean… no," the words spilled out of Benedict's mouth though he knew they would be of no avail.

He tried to pull back, undo the damage, but to his horror he felt it was too late. Benedict ran through the mind palace. Wait.

No.

His.

These thoughts, ideas, experiences

Were all his

His mind palace. Yes.

No.

No that wasn't right. Was it?

The room, he had to get to it.

 

It was safe.

The actor, (actor? Yes his brother had always said he had a flare for the dramatic) ran down the winding corridors, skidding around corners and pushing off walls he came in collision with. The room he had to get to the room. Why did he have to get to the room? What was so important? Think, come on think! Coming up with nil the projection of the brunet continued through the mental construct, the last chamber in the farthest passageway that was all that mattered, all that was of import. With a final skid this destination came into sight, and running at full tilt the tall figure ate the remaining space between itself and the ingress. Red pine. The door was constructed of red pine. Why? The other doors were dark oak. Why did he differentiate this one? No not important, just reach it. He had to reach it. Imagined skin connected with imagined wood, the sharp spiciness of a freshly cut Christmas tree permeated the entrance way. Odd, he had no memories of Christmas. They had been deleted after grandmother had passed on. Why then would he make this association? The pads of his fingers traced down the patterns of the unoiled wood, until they came into contact with a cold brass door knob. A small smile spread across his lips. He could answer these queries. The solutions lay just behind the door. Engaging the metacarpal bones in his right hand the porcelain man endeavored to cross the strange barrier, only to hear a disconcerting clunk. Furrowing his brow he tried again with more force, clunk. The door was locked. No how could it be locked? Why would he lock anything in HIS mind palace?

"No," he whispered in confusion as he tried the handle again, clunk.

"No," frustration and disbelief colored his voice. Clunk, clunk, clunkity clunk.

"NO! NO! NO!" The man screamed as he forcibly rattled the knob, the lock refused to disengage. Panic began to flow through him (this was wrong. The room. He needed to get into the room!) and long thin hands began to batter the door in frantic effort. He continued until his hands were numb, and his knuckles tattered and raw, but the wood held firm. Giving into despair the being curled onto the ground, an almost forgotten sliver of himself knowing this was the end.

An intoxicating high, better than cocaine or morphine (Wait he didn't know how those felt. Did he? Yes… yes of course he did.) thrummed throughout his entire being. He was aware of his body tipping forward until his face rested in the comforting familiar warmth of wool which smelled lightly of Earl Gray and gun powder. His hands which had still been attempting to hold his skull together fell to his sides, an euphoric weight pulling them towards Earth and allowing them to rest of the cold concrete. The pain which had lingered in his mind dissipated immediately making way for a welcoming darkness. His vessel and mind harmonized together. Everything was as it should be.

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

He had had a name once. Yes, a name most people had thought was strange. He had been teased about it in school, but later on its uniqueness had become a gift allowing him to succeed in his desired field. It had been in magazines and newspapers, thousands of people knew it, had read it, and spoken it aloud. It was somewhere here in the darkness which surrounded him. Engulfed his entire being in wordless bliss, but now he was searching for a word. A single word. His name. What was his name?

"Sherlock?" a familiar sound, no voice called through the warm darkness. He pushed himself towards it, floating up through the soft blackness letting it paint whips of tendrils over his skin. He opened his mouth to… speak? Breath? Was he breathing?

"Sherlock!?" the voice again. With the same word, a comfortable word that slipped in through the darkness and wrapped itself around him, blinding up his appendages and soaking into him with an all-encompassing belonging.

"Sherlock, wake up please!" Not a word, a title. The darkness began to evaporate around him leaving his skin with a reluctant kiss.

Sherlock… a name. Yes his name and he knew the voice saying it was well.

"J'hn?" he mumbled finally forcing his eyes open. Everything came in as a blur as his pupils tried to do the job of delivering light waves to the optical centers of the brain.

"Oh thank God," sighed the familiar voice. Moving his eyes towards the source of the sound Sherlock found John Watson his doctor and friend leaning over him.

"John, what happened?" His voice was horse with sleep, but the detective had to note that he felt good, better than he could remember feeling in a long while.

"You passed out after trying to assure me you were fine you git." The doctor scolded in a voice that spoke more of relief than anger. "Now do you believe me about that concussion?"

The detective pushed himself into a seated position, resting his back against the rubbish bin. "I'm fine John. I'm better now; I just needed to… reorganize."

"You and that bloody mind palace. Is everything alright in there? Did you have a nice little walk about as I sat here worried about your arse?"

"Of course. I knew you wouldn't let anything happen to me." The taller man flashed a small smile in his friend's direction.

"How is it that I know you're handling me right now, but I don't seem to mind? The blonde stood up brushing off his jeans in the process.

"It's one of the many positives side effects of my intelligence and eccentric charms," the detective shrugged whist taking the offered hand of his flat mate. The taller man was immensity happy to be off the cold and sticky ground. Judging by the sweetly sour tinged air he would guess they were currently behind a flower shop which dealt specifically with the flora of the orchid variety. Perhaps he should run a test of the different classifications of flowers to see how long into decomposition one could still differentiate their various odors. This may be helpful information to have in the future.

"Alright you bugger. Are you going to explain now?"

"Hmmm?" Sherlock hummed still considering the possible ways to set up this new experiment.

"On you know why we were at an old factory, and then chased by some nutter girls throughout London," annoyance was sown into the doctor's tone.

"What? What are you talking about John?"

"Sherlock…"

The detective stopped. He had no memory of this happening, but judging by their location and the throb in his head, perhaps there was some merit to what his blogger was saying. The question was then why would he have deleted it?

"Sherlock," John's voice pulled him back out of his thoughts.

"I seemed to have deleted it," he confessed with a deep rumble.

"Or," the physician intoned with a huff, "you may actually have a concussion. You passed out Sherlock; we solidify memory when we sleep, which is why you should do it more often. This gap in your short term memory after losing consciousness and that bump on your head are clear indications of a concussion."

"Fine Doctor Watson," the detective sneered, "I will submit to your expertise."

"What was that?" John smiled, "did you just say that I was right?"

"Shut up," Holmes scoffed, but as his friend nudged his shoulder he could not stop the small smirk which spread on his face. This felt right. This was how it should be.

"Alright you bugger, do you think you can get us home from here?"

Sherlock looked around; they were just on the other side of the Thames. "Of course John," confidence was palatable as he continued, "this is London after all."

The lithe figure led the duo through the alleys and back streets of the city. It had occurred to them that they should alert Lestrade to their current situation only to find that both their phones seemed to have been lost in the chase. No matter, they would contact the DI tomorrow for now both medic and sleuth agreed to head back to Baker Street.

"You must be rubbing off on me," mused the doctor, "I can't recall the last time I ate anything, and my throat feels as dry as a desert."

"Yes, well I'm sure you'll feed us up soon enough." Even the brunet was surprised by how long he must have ignored his transport for it to be in this condition. It must have been a spectacular case. Why couldn't he remember? Concussion, that's right, yes. "Perhaps Mrs. Hudson will make some of those peanut butter biscuits."

"Sherlock do you have any idea how late it is? She'll probably be in bed."

"Obviously John, but I'm sure if we wake her she'll…"

"Sherlock Holmes, you are not to bother Mrs. Hudson. Is that understood?"

"But John…"

"Is. That. Understood?"

"Fine."

"Good."

Finally the after a half an hour of taking back alleys and darkened side streets the two turned onto Baker Street only to find things… off. Numerous street signs relating to Sherlock Holmes were present on both sides of the way; the strangest sighting though was located outside of 221. There a statue stood of a tall man holding a pipe, clad in an over coat, and deerstalker sporting a hawk like nose.

"What the hell." John gasped frozen in front of the monument. This eyes fell down to the inscription, "Sherlock it says this is here for you. Erected in 1999? Whose idea of a sick joke is this?"

The typically verbose man stood in silence. Based on the patina and weather wear the statue had most likely been there for fourteen years, but that was impossible. He turned on his spot to yield a view of the Baker Street building taking note of the sign proclaiming it 'The Sherlock Holmes Museum.' His analytical spheres traversed the building until they landed on what would be the front room of flat B; it was ablaze with light. Letting his knees buckle, the taller man fell against her squatter friend, who with all of the speed of military training and practice of living with a man who frequently ignored his transport quickly grabbed the boney body.

"Okay, alright," the doctor grunted under the new weight, "let's get you upstairs, and we'll figure this out later, yeah?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock mumbled into the woolen shoulder, letting his arms dangle over his friend's back.

"Of course you are," John chuckled, "come on, up you get."

The detective stood back up, quickly pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat, nodding slightly in agreement. Despite this seemingly instantaneous recovery John kept a hand on his friend's back, in case he began to sway once more.

Upon reaching the black door the medic reached into his pocket to find his keys missing. He was just about to voice his concerns when the taller man reached out to the door knob and disengaged it with a simple twist.

"That's strange, why would Ms. Hudson leave the door unlocked?"

"It wasn't Ms. Hudson," the bass answered.

"What? Who else would it be?"

"The person behind this, all of this," the detective turned to his friend, gifting him a sad smile, "I'm sorry John."

The older man's eyebrows furrowed, "Sorry, sorry for wha.." Before the question could be fully voiced the detective opened the door, slipped through, and closed it with one fluid handsome motion. The short dance ended with the click of the lock.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" The physician pounded on the door frantically, he could not let the idiot face whoever was up there alone. Reaching into the low of his back Watson found the home of his gun empty. That git must have lifted it off of him when he 'collapsed.' "No, No! Sherlock!" Deep in the doctor's mind he knew that his pleas were following on deaf ears.

The detective leaned up against the interior if the door, listening to his friend's worried cries. He felt a portion of his masked heart cracking, but he could not, would not allow the good doctor to be hurt once more. This was his fault, he was sure of it, and he must handle it alone. Steeling himself against the sudden bout of sentiment the detective took in the area he found himself in, the layout and framing of the building looked right, same skeletal structure then, but the interior did not match up with what he knew. At the top of the stairs a dim light shown from under the door of what should be his flat, their flat. Blocking out John's appeals, Sherlock rose to his feet, and ascended the stairs, a sinking feeling making a home in his gut.

 

XXX

Whatever the detective had been expecting this was not it. Pushing open the door and crossing the barrier Sherlock Holmes found himself in a flat, but not 221B. The carpet was old and warn, fraying near the entrance way. Two doors lay to the left, most likely bedrooms, and directly across from the door lay what seemed to be a toilet. The room into which the sleuth stepped was decorated in a bohemian manner. A well-used couch and chair (roughly twenty five years in age based on the fabric pattern and ware marks) were surrounded by mismatched end tables; all of this encompassed a travel trunk which had obviously been painted by an unskilled individual. Against the far wall, next to the toilet lay a half table (chipped and sporting a crack across the top vainly covered by a doily most likely a rubbish hunting find), a telly was placed on an equality degraded through also well cared for stand, and pinched against a preassembled book case littered with literature.

The strangest find though was a young blonde female lounging with her back against the foot of the couch. Her personal space was surrounded by stacks of books and papers, while a computer sat perched on her knees leaning into her ribs. All this evidence coupled with the low temperature and bundling of the mentioned figure pointed to a university student. What truly marked her as unusual though was her reaction to the darkly cloaked figure of Sherlock Holmes as he closed and locked her door never taking his eyes off her visage.

"Great! That's just great," the blonde sighed her eyes never leaving the screen before her.

"Sorry, but what's great?" The detective could not care less about what was bothering this idiot, but her blabbering would allow him time to procure more information about this situation.

"This! All of this. You being here in my apartment it's such a M Night Shamalon-a-ding-dong twist. I mean this is the first fic I've ever published and now everyone is going to be disappointed with the ending. I mean I'm not Dickens and this isn't _David Copperfield._ I have no right." A sigh left the slightly chapped lips. "It's not my fault," gray eyes met the detective's silver before falling back down to the screen as her fingers danced on the keyboard, "this was supposed to be a one shot. Only a thousand words or so, the first chapter was the only chapter, but then I showed it to a friend and she wanted me to continue it and here we are. Perfect."

"Right," sighed the detective fingering the weight of the gun resting in his right pocket, "and you are?"

"Me, oh I'm nobody. Just a writer."

The detective stepped farther into the small room, this girl did not seem to pose any threat. Suddenly he lifted his head to the ceiling. What was that? A voice coming from no discernable source, long legs carried the man towards the other end of the flat, gifting him a view of a small kitchen. He continued to search around perturbed until he finally voiced his frustration, "What is that," Sherlock seethed, "Who is here? Why are they speaking my every action? It's annoying."

"Oh," the girl shrugged, "you must mean the narrator, he does that."

"The narrator? What the duce are you talking about?" Sherlock ducked his head into the kitchen and began to rummage around in the cabinetry. There had to be someone, or something, yes! Perhaps speakers, but if the individual were off premise that would require cameras, and judging by his quick yet thorough visual search he had not noticed any visual capture devises. Also (and perhaps more perturbing) the voice seemed to have a front seat to his thinking process as his surface thoughts were being broadcast across the whole of the dank flat.

"My apartment is not dank," a higher voice carried from the living room, the girl then, "It's comfortable and homey."

"Wait," the gum shoe proclaimed storming out from the kitchen, a thunder of falling cooking apparati echoing in his wake, "why is it narrating both my thoughts and actions, while it is only speaking your movements?"

"Well," she explained neglecting to mention the mess he had apparently made in her kitchen, "he has been a semi-omnipresent being throughout the entirety of this work. It would disrupt the flow of the story if I suddenly changed him to an all knowing watcher at the end."

"Story, work, you keep saying that," The detective leveled his eyes on the body which had now switched to a crossed leg position on the carpet, "what do you mean exactly?"

The girl sighed, "I suppose I should explain as all of this questioning is doing nothing for forward momentum. I am the writer of this story."

The detective scoffed and wrinkled his nose, "are you suggesting," he chuckled mirthfully, "that you are God, my creator? I'm not even sure such a thing exists, but if it did I highly doubt it would choose the form of a poor university student to visit me in."

"Are you sure?" the girl shot back whilst relaxing into the foot of the couch, "They do say that God works in mysterious ways, and as I recall you walked through my door. So really you're the one visiting." A small chuckle rose from her throat when she spied the grimace this elected from the tall man. "Don't worry though I'm not a deity or your creator. That title falls to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, although I'm not sure he would be happy to take it." For a moment the only sound audible with the depressing of computer keys, "You two had a pretty destructive relationship. No, I am simply to tell your story. Weather I want to or not."

The detective came forward dropping, until the only space separating them was that taken up by the laptop perched on the girl's knees. "What," the alabaster man churned, "do you mean?"

The young woman sighed, lifting her eyes again to meet his. The detective noted the dark circles under the gray irises, "Bricks are actually made in Manchester."

"What?"

"Bricks," the voice rose, "are made in Manchester. I didn't know that. I'm sure you can tell I'm American. When I started this story I just threw in a British sounding place into your deduction of the walls, I mean Doyle did this all the time. Look at _A Study in Scarlet's_ claims about the topography of Utah, or _The Speckled Band,_ where the whole story hinges on the ability for one to keep a snake in a safe, and sustain in on milk. Both are horridly incorrect."

"There is a possibility," Sherlock explained in exasperation to the simpleton, "that you did know this, it was just jumbled up in that guileless brain of yours."

"Then how do you explain," the writer probed, "Limehouse E14?"

The detective tilted his head to the side wondering what this senseless being could have to do with this whole ordeal.

"The place you were held, the abandoned warehouse on the corner of Caird and Rayner. I didn't find out it was real until I started doing research. That's not how writing works. You can't just make up things only to find out they're true."

"Wait, you know about the warehouse?"

"Of course, I wrote it."

Holmes stood up and began to pace back and forth across the small living room, "How could you possibly…?" The detective caught a view of the window, "It's snowing."

"Yep."

"But it isn't cold enough to snow," Sherlock crossed to the frame and took in the strange sight. His eyes did not fall on London for on the other side of the pane there lay a complex seemingly broken up into small flats, most likely with the same layout of the one he stood in. Tiny, identical, boring boxes. How could anyone live like that?

"It's cheap," the female offered.

"Where are we?"

"In the U.S., northern continental region if that helps. Sorry, but that's all I will give you. Anything I say has to be written down, and I don't want to give out my location."

"That's idiotic."

"It's the truth," she shrugged, allowing the two individuals to fall into silent contemplation once more.

"If this is happening now," the detective questioned eye brow risen, "why does the narrator continue to speak in the past tense?"

Two hands flew up in the air in exasperation "For the flow, obviously. We've already discussed this! Can we move forward please?"

"You're on edge."

"No shit Sherlock," realizing what had just spilled from her mouth the blonde's head fell back onto the seat of the couch as she erupted into deranged giggles.

The detective took a moment to understand the blathering he had just been subjected to. This was not logical, none of this was logical. Still, he had to trust what his senses told him, and when you illuminate the impossible…

"You said this was originally to be a short story, am I correct?"

"Yes," the woman answered once she had sobered, "a one shot."

He sat down now in the worn chair, composing himself with the utmost sense of dignity as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Despite all of the confusion this was setting up to be a pretty little puzzle. "Why? How did this all begin? Start from the beginning and be precise."

The shoulders of the young woman tensed, but she seemed to come to the decision to share her tale with the man whose gaze had become tranquil even while his brain kicked up with the excitement of solving an enigma.

"It all started with a dream. I had been surfing the fan sites trying to get my fill of _Sherlock,_ as I was having terrible cravings."

"Why pray tell, would you need to get your 'fix' of me?"

"Well, it's not you exactly," The woman explained, "It's a television series on the BBC; the fans have been waiting two years for a new season," at this point the writer motioned to the bottom shelves of her bookcase. The detective turned to take in the sight of a collection of DVDs, two of which read Sherlock on their spines. "We had just gotten a new video that week so there was loads of new material, when I went to bed that night I had the first dream."

The detective nodded to show he understood.

"When I awoke the next day I found that the dream would not leave my mind until I typed it out. I sent it to a friend, Cassie and she asked for more. As I said, this was to be a one shot, so I had not planned for it to continue on, but the dreams persisted. I found I had to write them down, it was as though I was possessed," she looked up at him then regret spilling from her face, "and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for what I did to Benedict and Martin."

The willowy man lifted an eyebrow, "Who?"

"Benedict Cumberbatch, and Martin Freeman," she sighed seeming to deflate, "you and who you believe to be John Hamish Watson."

That, no that did not make sense. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Yet there was that name, 'Benedict,' it was like a memory of a memory, a thought from a dream which seemed to be stable, until one begins to grasp at it and it passed through your fingers in wisps, just attempting to clutch the label made the detective's forehead palpitate.

"I'm sorry," the writer whispered, "but I'm not even sure you can remember anymore, Ben. I don't know what Cassandra might have done to your door, but she wanted you to be Sherlock Holmes; there is nothing I can do."

"You're the writer," he gasped bringing his head to his hands, "you control where the story goes, how it ends. You can change the culmination of events."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"NO I CAN'T! Don't you understand?" Tears streamed down the tired face, "Do you think I haven't tried? I didn't want to do this to you. You and Doctor Watson, you were the closest things to friends I had as a child, but the story, this story needs to be told. I cannot rest until it's finished, and I'm tired, so so tired. I just want my brain to stop."

"You want it to stop?" The brunet struggled but pulled the gun from his pocket, resting his shaky arm on the threadbare rest if the chair to steady the sight until it lined up with the blonde head, "a bullet should stop those synapses from firing, wouldn't you agree?"

The girl grew silent for a moment, her fingers continued to type, but at a much slower pace. Finally, she drew breath into her lungs until she was able to speak, "I never thought," she chocked, "I never thought I would be the villain at the end of the story."

"Yes well, villains have sinister motives which you seem to be lacking. I suppose you're more fate's disposable instrument."

The woman smiled at this, even allowing a small chuckle to leave her lips, "funny, I didn't think Sherlock Holmes believed in fate." After a moment she continued, "Do you think it will work? That removing me, the writer will allow the story to end, or perhaps become just a story? But then what if we're just a story?" Her head snapped up suddenly, startled by her own thought, "What if there is someone else sitting at a computer typing out this interaction right now? What if neither of us is real?"

"I'm not sure, but I know one way to answer a few of those questions."

The girl nodded, putting on a brave face even while silent tears made tracks down her face. "Do I get any last requests?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "I don't see why not."

"I would like to save, and…and post this. I can't leave my readers without an ending, with explanation."

"That should be fine," the baritone drawled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally my friends this is the end. 
> 
> On FanFiction and when I showed this to friends they usually had questions, so I'm thinking of adding a frequently asked questions portion as chapter 12. Would anyone be interested in that? Please leave a comment to let me know, or ask your own questions if you have them.  
> I had way too much fun writing this and would love to share my thoughts and ideas if people actually wanted to read them.  
> Once again, thank you for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos; it has been a true honor.
> 
> Nikola


	12. Frequently Asked Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A FAQ section which answers queries friends and readers have asked.

_How much of that MKULTRA stuff was real?_

The CIA began the MKUltra (how it is correctly written) project in the early1950’s, and officially ended it in 1973; during this time it had strong connections to the Special Operations Division of the Army's Chemical Corps although how this connection presented is still unknown to the lay person. According to the records the study was attempting to engineer the behaviors of human beings and used many methods including but not limited to hypnotism, abuse (both verbal and sexual), sensory deprivation, drugs (the most wildly known being LSD), other chemicals, and torture to meet their goals.

MKUltra was wide spread, often using covers while operating in colleges, hospitals, prisons and various other organizations in the United States and Canada where citizens of both countries became unsuspecting test subjects.

According to the Supreme Court of the United States:

 

> concerned with "the research and development of chemical, biological, and radiological materials capable of employment in clandestine operations to control human behavior." The program consisted of some 149 subprojects which the Agency contracted out to various universities, research foundations, and similar institutions. At least 80 institutions and 185 private researchers participated. Because the Agency funded MKULTRA indirectly, many of the participating individuals were unaware that they were dealing with the Agency.

In July 2001 some surviving information regarding MKUltra was officially declassified. At the time I was going into fifth grade (yeah, I’m old) and was a HUGE conspiracy theorist (I blame _Justice League: The animated Series._ Aglets man, aglets) so I was all over this.

I’m sure you can learn more if you are interested with a simple Google search, but please remember everything you read is not necessarily true. Sorry crazy rant over now.

 

"Project MKULTRA." _Project MKULTRA_. N.p., n.d. Web. 13 Jan. 2014.       

_Where did you come up with the title?_

Actually the working title of this was Brainwash, but then I came up with Infinitely Stranger than Fiction (for a time it was called Infinitely Stranger than Fan Fiction [in my head], but I thought that might give the ending away and I didn’t want to do that) after rereading Doyle’s short stories _The Case of Identity,_ here is the quote of inspiration:

 

> life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generation, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.

First off, woah that imagery! It still takes my breath away.

Okay, back to your question. I feel the quote in its entirety really explains the whole idea behind IStF. When the story begins and really until the last half of the final chapter it is presented as being a fic about real people. When Sherlock enters the writer’s flat however, it suddenly becomes apparent that what we have been reading is actually a fictional representation of a fictional story.

Does your head hurt after reading that? Mine hurts after typing it. Essentially I am a writer writing about a writer who is writing about Ben and Martin. I think I just created a logic paradox…. I’m going to go lay down now.

 

Doyle, Arthur Conan. _The Secret of Goresthorpe Grange and a Case of Identity_. New York:George Munro's Sons, 1897. Print.

_What is Uta Hagen?_

I don’t claim to know much about acting, it’s not my division. I do however listen to Weird Al because I am a nerd, so he is my division.

In the song _Skipper Dan_ about a man who went to school to be an actor, but sadly is now working as a tour guide on a jungle cruise ride Dan (our protagonist) relates how he studied Uta Hagan amongst other things whist dreaming of becoming a star.

According to the interwebs Uta Hagen was an actor and drama teacher. I liked the sound of her name, and figured it might have been something that Cumberbatch would have studied to become an actor which Holmes would have found unnecessary and deleted. Hope that helps!

 

Weird Al. Alpocalypse: Skipper Dan. 2009. CD.

"Uta Hagen." IMDb. _IMDb.com_ , n.d. Web. 19 Jan. 2014.

_It’s really creepy how you put in the actual names of Martin’s kids._

Thank you… I think. I found them with a Google search.         

 

 

_Have you done drugs or been drugged? You describe it with a lot of detail._

I hope everyone liked the Ben/Cassie interaction; it was really fun to write. Cassie was the mouth piece of some of my deepest rooted thoughts and fears.

As for drugs I have never done anything recreational, but I have a ton of crazy medical issues and have been given strong pain medication before from doctors to counteract my aching; this experience and my imagination are where I drew my inspiration for Benedict fighting, but ultimately losing to the serum.                        

_Do they (Benedict and Martin) ever become themselves again or do they stay Sherlock and John? What happens next? Will there be a sequel?_

Currently I do not have plans to continue this work; the writer is dead so I do not know how I would create a sequel as she and by proxy the story have apparently been killed. That being said, if the inspiration strikes I will post a continuation on AO3, and if others feel inspired to write an ending and want to post them I have not qualms with this. If you do I only ask you give me credit for the original idea, and send me a link because I want to see what you came up with. :)

 At the moment I am not even sure what happened to Ben and Martin, I would hope they would become themselves again... but then we're all just stories in the end aren't we?

I guess I'm saying I'm not sure; sorry that is probably not what you wanted to hear, but right now it is the truth.

_Would you mind if I drew pictures for IStF?_

I would be honored if someone did art inspired by this work, or any of my works. It would probably make my year.

_Are you the character of the writer? Did you just kill yourself off?_

Am I the character of the writer? No. Did Sherlock show up in my apartment and threaten to shoot me? Yes...in a way… I’ll explain.

First off the character of the writer was really therapeutic because I felt a lot of guilt over what I had done to the characters throughout the text. Getting to express these thoughts lifted a great weight off of my chest.  

When the writer described how the story began with a _Sherlock_ Google marathon induced dream that was true. The idea of being controlled by someone else, ceasing to exist, to become something I was not without even realizing it was happening is one of my one oldest fears, and as such was a recurring topic of many childhood nightmares. With this history I was not surprised when they returned in my adult life. This time however, I was not being subjected to the manipulation, but an invisible bystander. If anything I would say that I am the narrator, which is not often the case, and should never be assumed as such when reading any work.  Physically and in some what mentally the writer is based on me, and yes that is a description of my apartment. I did not do research about this story beforehand, and finding out how well my story matched up with geographical facts was really creepy.

Limehouse E14 really exists and bricks are apparently made in Manchester. Crazy, right?

 

"Factories and Warehouses - Derelict London." _Derelict London_. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Jan. 2014.

"Building Sustainability." _Ibstock Brick Limited_. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Jan. 2014.   

 

The final chapter came to me in a daydeam, and I thought I had gone mental for about ten minutes, It was really intense and I wrote to my beta and friend Cassie afterword to tell her what happened on Facebook. Here it is below:

 

> Okay so... You have no idea about this crazy twisted mind of mine. I think I just had a stroke, not an actual ‘call-911-the-left-side-of-my-face-isn’t-responding-and-I-taste-lilacs-stroke,’ but something in my head just combusted. I have been working on Brainwash for the last three hours, typing up the end of a story even though the middle isn't written yet. It is going to be M Night Shyamalan-a-ding-dong crazy (oh, I like that. I'm using that!) in the best possible way (I hope anyway). I really would like to get it to you tonight, but it may be a week or so depending on homework, life, and stuff. Also thanks for the encouragement, if it wasn't for you these ideas would just stay in my mind and drive me insane (not in the fun way).

And her response:

 

> [My actual name], I don't think I make it clear to you often enough how happy I am you are in my life stories. M Night Shymalan-a-ding dong, Cassie

Okay, so I think that is everything. Thanks again for reading.

  


End file.
